


Like Spring After Winter

by ProofOfConcept, wilddragonflying



Series: Collaborations [87]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - No Beast (The Magicians), Alternate Universe - No Fillory (The Magicians), Anal Fingering, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Cunnilingus, Eliot Waugh's Canonically Huge Dick, Explicit Sexual Content, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, General Warning for Mike McCormick, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Squirting, Ted Coldwater adopts Eliot Waugh, Trans Eliot Waugh, Trans Male Character, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, past transphobic behavior, safe sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:07:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 40,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25671061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProofOfConcept/pseuds/ProofOfConcept, https://archiveofourown.org/users/wilddragonflying/pseuds/wilddragonflying
Summary: After the quiet that was his dad's place for the winter break, returning to Brakebills is almost overwhelming. Of course, that probably has something to do with the fact that he comes back in the middle of a belated New Year's party - or maybe it's just a celebration of a new semester? Hell, knowing the Physical Cottage, it might just be a party for the sake of it.Quentin puts his wards back up quickly, and they help block some of the noise, but they don't block Margo bursting into his room, ascertaining that he's brought all his shit in, and then grabbing him by the arm and dragging him back downstairs to say hi to everyone. She's a good buffer, even if she's a whirlwind, and when she's satisfied that Quentin's fulfilled his social obligations for the moment, she deposits him safely in 'his' seat by the bar, the one he'd unofficially claimed three weeks into last semester. "Take care of our little nerd, El," she says, pecking a kiss to Quentin's cheek before taking the drink Eliot hands her and disappearing back into the crowd.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Series: Collaborations [87]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/41362
Comments: 10
Kudos: 119





	Like Spring After Winter

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, buckle up! Got a few things to mention here before we get started!
> 
> So, in this fic, Eliot is a trans guy. You know the rules regarding most Magicians no-Beast/Fillory AUs. Mike still happened, he was still a dick - and there's the extra layer in this one as to his past reactions to the fact that Eliot is trans. Nothing explicit is said about what he said, but he is mentioned.
> 
> The other thing is, there is a sex scene between Quentin/Eliot later on, and Eliot tells Quentin what he's comfortable with calling the different parts of his anatomy, and Quentin makes absolutely certain that Eliot is good with every single thing they do. The terms Eliot is comfortable with are 'cock' and 'cunt,' and he tells Quentin that after Quentin asks, but if you aren't comfortable with reading those terms applied to a trans man, then feel free to skip from:
> 
> "Eliot's eyes are still closed when Quentin pulls back, a soft smile playing about his lips. "Show me," he says." to: "Eliot wakes up the next morning with a mouthful of hair and an armful of warm, naked boy."
> 
> Doing so, you'll skip over the actual sex, and while there will still be some mentions of what they did, it won't be quite as explicit nor as lengthy.

After the quiet that was his dad's place for the winter break, returning to Brakebills is almost overwhelming. Of course, that probably has something to do with the fact that he comes back in the middle of a belated New Year's party - or maybe it's just a celebration of a new semester? Hell, knowing the Physical Cottage, it might just be a party for the sake of it.

Whatever the reason, the party makes it twice as difficult as it should be for Quentin to get his things back into his room, because the party isn't just downstairs, it's all through the damned place, including up in the actual resident rooms as well. Quentin puts his wards back up quickly, and they help block some of the noise, but they don't block Margo bursting into his room, ascertaining that he's brought all his shit in, and then grabbing him by the arm and dragging him back downstairs to say hi to everyone. She's a good buffer, even if she's a whirlwind, and when she's satisfied that Quentin's fulfilled his social obligations for the moment, she deposits him safely in 'his' seat by the bar, the one he'd unofficially claimed three weeks into last semester. "Take care of our little nerd, El," she says, pecking a kiss to Quentin's cheek before taking the drink Eliot hands her and disappearing back into the crowd.

Quentin takes what feels like the first breath he's had a chance to since Margo ambushed him. " _Jesus,_ " he sighs, then turns to grin at Eliot. "Hi. I would've said it earlier, but." He waves a hand in the direction Margo disappeared in.

Eliot gives him an indulgent smile. "Needs must," he agrees. "What are you drinking tonight?"

"Something simple and not too strong," Quentin says with a grin. "Unlike you wild animals, I'm not planning on starting the semester off with a hangover."

Eliot's face slackens with surprise. "You mean we have classes tomorrow?"

Quentin snickers. "I love you all, but do you think I'd come live in _this_ chaos more than a day before classes start?" he retorts. 

"I resent that," Eliot says. He grabs a handful of raspberries and throws them into a blender. "You're not going to be offended if this thing is bright pink, are you?"

"I am offended that you think I'd be offended at the color of my drink," Quentin informs him, lips twitching into a smile. 

Eliot adds ice and cuts into a lime. "Well, a lot of straight white boys would get weird about it."

"Well, good thing I'm not, then," Quentin snorts. 

Eliot squints at him. "White?" he asks.

"No, straight. I'm not straight, Eliot," Quentin says, with equal parts patience and apprehension, that same little niggling bit of fear that never quite goes away, no matter who he comes out to. 

He actually watches Eliot's brain reboot. It would be kind of funny to see if they were talking about anything else. "Right," Eliot says. "Okay." He turns back to the blender. "Are you brave enough for real rum or should I dial it back and grab the Malibu I pretend I don't have?"

"I think I'm going to have to ask for the Malibu," Quentin chuckles. "If you want me to have more than one drink to stay here and talk, anyway."

Eliot blows out a breath, but he reaches beneath the bar to pull out the offending bottle. "You tell anyone about this, and you're dead," he says lightly.

"You'd never kill me," Quentin says confidently. "Margo, on the other hand..."

"Smart," Eliot says, and flicks the blender on. "Every man should have a healthy fear of Margo Hanson."

Quentin smiles, watching Eliot work for a moment before he changes the subject. "How was your break, El?"

"Great," Eliot tells him. "I don't think Margo and I were sober for a single day of it. How was yours?"

"Pretty much the exact opposite," Quentin laughs. "I spent most of it with Dad, visited Jules's family at one point. But other than that, it was just... quiet."

"Just the way you like it, then. One raspberry daiquiri." Eliot slides the glass over to him and magics away the mess in the blender. "Welcome back, Q."

Quentin takes the drink with a smile. "Thanks, El. It's good to be back."

Eliot smiles - and then his gaze drifts away from Quentin, and he nods at something behind him. "Looks like you're not the only one back tonight."

Quentin glances over his shoulder, grinning when he sees Alice already bickering with Margo. "I'm gonna go say hi," he says, looking back at Eliot. "I'll be right back."

"Take your time," Eliot says, but Quentin's already moving.

"--very kind of you, Margo," Alice is saying, "but you don't need to do my make up. I really did just want a quiet night tonight."

Margo looks briefly frustrated before her gaze catches on Quentin, and then she grins, reaching over to grab him by the arm and pull him in closer. "So did Quentin, but look! _He's_ down here being social."

"Quentin was dragged down here by Margo," Quentin laughs. "And has been hiding out by the bar for a while." He looks up, gives Alice a small smile. "I did come over to say hi, though."

Alice smiles back, sweet and tentative. "Hi, Q."

"How was your break?" Any conversation between them would be slightly awkward, but with Margo watching like a hawk, Quentin feels like it's about twice as awkward as it strictly needs to be. What is he supposed to do, though? Tell Margo to go away? He likes his balls attached to his body, thanks. 

Alice just shrugs. "Fine," she says. "I mean, my parents are... a lot, so it was busy, but. I managed to avoid most of it." She sighs, shakes herself like she's shedding the weight of their presence. "I'm glad to be back, anyway. How was yours?"

"Quiet, for the most part," Quentin answers. "Visited Julia's family at one point, which was a non-magic madhouse." He smiles, adjusts his grip on his drink. "It's good to see you again."

"You too." Alice's gaze skitters towards Margo and then back to Quentin. "I think I'm just going to go up to my room. You have a good night, okay?"

"You, too," Quentin says with a smile, lifting his drink in a faux toast as Alice leaves. When she's gone, he gives Margo a questioning look. "Can I... have my arm back now?"

"Hmm." Margo pretends to think it over. "No, I don't think so. Finish your drink, you get to dance with me since you distracted me from getting my brushes on Quinn."

Sighing with a smile, Quentin accepts his fate.

* * *

The first few days of classes pass in a whirlwind of activity; Quentin had _thought_ he’d known what he was getting into after surviving his first semester, but he was sorely mistaken. He’s forced to hit the ground running, and while he manages to keep up with his classes, by the time Wednesday evening rolls around, he’s already exhausted, and feels absolutely no shame in throwing himself onto the couch next to Eliot. Everyone else has long since gone upstairs, so he doesn’t bother to disguise the whine in his voice as he asks, “Can you just, like, _drown_ me in wine, please?”

Eliot doesn't seem surprised by Quentin's predicament. He just chuckles. "Red or white?"

"Whatever's closest," Quentin groans.

"Red, then," Eliot says. A few precise tuts manifest a second wine glass on the table before them, and he leans forward to pour them both a glass. He picks up both and hands one to Quentin. "Rough week?"

"And it's not even _over_ yet," Quentin complains, taking the glass. "Why is the second semester so much harder than the first?"

"They're easing you in with the first," Eliot says. "No more 'pass or we'll wipe your memory' tests now, though." He smirks. "Probably."

"Thanks, that's so comforting," Quentin says dryly, taking a hearty sip of his wine. "Arabic's the worst, though. Why are so many spells in foreign languages?"

"Because they're old, I guess," Eliot says. He sips his wine and shudders. "Arabic is horrendous, though. I can't help you with that."

"You had to take it, right? How'd you pass?"

Eliot snorts. "I paid for the exam answers in nipple clamps."

Quentin chokes on his next sip of wine, barely manages to keep from spitting it across the coffee table in front of them. " _Nipple clamps?_ "

Eliot watches him closely over the rim of his own glass. "I have quite an extensive collection."

"That..." Quentin shakes his head, a bemused smile curving his mouth. "Of all the toys I ever thought you might have a fucking _collection_ of, nipple clamps did not make the list."

Eliot looks delighted. "You've thought about my toys?" he asks. "Tell me more."

"Not like, _extensively,_ " Quentin protests, flushing. "But - I mean, it's not like you're... _subtle_ about what you like."

Eliot's grin widens. "I have no idea what you mean," he says. "Please, go on."

The flush deepens. "No, I don't think I will," Quentin grumbles, focusing on the wine in his hand and ignoring the fact that he's practically _pouting_. "You're just going to make fun of me."

"Oh, no," Eliot says, and his face falls. "I won't, I swear. Come on."

Quentin eyes him suspiciously for a moment before he sighs. "You call yourself _Daddy_ anytime you have the least excuse," he says. "And sometimes I... wondered. How serious you took that."

Eliot looks at him with an unreadable expression. "You're into that, aren't you?" he asks.

Quentin's flush, which had just started to recede, returns in force. "I'm not saying anything," he says immediately, downing the rest of his wine. "Except asking for another refill. You want that kind of information, you're gonna have to get me more than wine drunk, Waugh."

Eliot laughs, but pours him the requested top-up. "Noted," he says. "You're coming to the party on Saturday, right?"

"Not if you're planning to ambush me with more sex questions," Quentin grumbles, cheeks still hot. 

"I'll be on my best behaviour, I promise."

Quentin eyes Eliot doubtfully for a moment or two before he relaxes. "Alright, I'll stop by for a little while, then," he concedes. 

"It'll be good for you," Eliot says. "Help you take your mind off the workload."

"If you say so," Quentin snorts, but he's smiling. "What about you? How's the first week of classes treating you?"

"Can't complain," Eliot says lightly. He's suddenly a lot more interested in his wine glass. "I haven't really been going to classes."

Quentin blinks. "What?"

Eliot waves a vague hand. "I will," he says, "when I feel like it. Some time before finals, probably. I've just... been busy."

Now Quentin looks at Eliot with concern. "Busy with what?"

Eliot sighs and downs the rest of his wine. "Day-drinking," he says, and reaches again for the bottle.

Quentin bites his lip, hesitating for a moment before he reaches out with one foot, nudges Eliot's knee with his toe. "Well, maybe you should pop by a little sooner than finals? Maybe just being there will help you absorb some stuff through osmosis even if you don't pay attention," he teases lightly.

Eliot snorts. "Maybe," he says. "I was fine last year, don't worry about me."

"That was your first year, though," Quentin points out. "Don't the classes get more difficult every year?"

"I guess we'll find out," Eliot says. "Seriously, Q, it's fine."

Quentin wants to push the issue, but decides against it, instead settling more comfortably onto the couch. "So what's the theme of this weekend's party?"

"No theme," Eliot says, smiling. "Just 'end of first week, get fucked up' vibes."

Quentin laughs. "So, I should probably stick close to the stairs to make a quick escape when it gets out of control, huh?"

"Or you could stick around," Eliot suggests, his gaze keen on Quentin's face. "See what happens."

Quentin's eyebrow rises. "You think something interesting will happen?" he asks, taking another sip of his wine, surprised to find the glass already nearly-empty. 

Eliot shrugs. "Maybe. If you play your cards right."

Quentin snorts. "That's not exactly as enticing as you think it is," he informs Eliot, laughing. 

"Pity," Eliot says, and leans forward, into Quentin's space. "More wine?"

"Sure," Quentin says, not moving to put any more distance between them. The conversation shifts then, twisting and turning idly as they polish off the rest of that bottle and then another. By the time they're on their third bottle, they've moved from sitting on the couch to lying on it; Eliot is leaning against the corner, one arm stretched along the back of the couch. Quentin has fit himself between his legs, his back to Eliot's stomach, head resting on Eliot's chest as he gestures with the hand not holding his sixth - seventh? - glass of wine. 

"I'm just saying, sex is, it's good! It's fine!" he says, twisting so he can look up at Eliot. "But have you ever actually _had_ caramel-filled brownies with chocolate chunks? Orgasms can't compare! And that's not even touching on like - the pleasure of a good book!"

Eliot just laughs above him. "That just says more about the kind of sex you've been having than anything else."

"Or maybe it says something about the kinds of brownies and books _you've_ had," Quentin counters smartly. "You should let me make you brownies. Or see if I can get my dad to make you a batch, mine are never as good as his."

"We are talking about normal brownies, right?" Eliot asks.

Quentin gapes at him, not quite upside down, but definitely off-kilter. " _No,_ we are not!" he sputters, indignant. "We're talking about brownies made from _scratch_ with chunks of chocolate in the brownie batter, and then with sea salt caramel in the middle _and_ drizzled on top! Comparing _these_ to regular brownies is like - like - comparing a professionally-made margarita to one made with that shitty pre-made store mix!"

Eliot pats his cheek with an indulgent smile. "While I appreciate your indignation about poorly-made cocktails, that's not really what I meant," he says. "I meant... they're not _enhanced_ in any way."

Quentin scowls, batting at Eliot's hand. "They don't need to have drugs or magic to be better than _enhanced_ brownies or sex," he informs Eliot. 

"I think I'll be the judge of that," Eliot says sweetly. "You're not known for your refined palate."

"Okay, y'know what? Fuck you, asshole," Quentin laughs. "I'm gonna make you eat your fucking words, just you wait. I might not know alcohol, but _I know baked goods._ "

"Whatever you say, Q," Eliot laughs.

* * *

Quentin and Eliot stay up until after midnight talking and drinking; Quentin loses track of everything they've talked about by the time they finally put the wine glasses away and head upstairs to bed. He barely has the presence of mind to toe off his shoes and tug his shirt off before he flops onto his bed and passes the fuck out, but he does so with a smile on his face. Quentin wakes up the next morning with a hangover that makes him grateful he doesn't have early classes on Thursdays. By the time his eleven o'clock class rolls around, he's not _fine,_ but he's functional, although Eliot is nowhere to be seen when Quentin drags himself downstairs and out the front door of the Cottage.

After his morning class, lunch, and then afternoon class, Quentin meets Julia in the library to go over their notes, trying to get ahead of the growing sense of dread and anxiety. He wasn't lying to Eliot; this semester, Quentin's finding it more difficult to grasp concepts right off the bat. He isn't _completely_ missing them, but... Well, he knows that there's something he's missing, and he knows he's already starting to lag behind everyone else. That's not terribly helpful for his anxiety.

"I don't get it," he says, frustrated, after comparing his notes to the ones he took last semester. "I'm using the same format! This worked _fine_ for me last semester, why is this so much more difficult this semester?" He's careful to keep his voice down, mindful of the librarian who'd given him the stink-eye many times last semester for speaking slightly above normal indoor volume, and the fact that there's a few other students nearby.

"You have a lot more information to retain this semester," Julia says primly. "And let's be honest, Q, you've never really _studied_. You just read your notes the day before the exam."

Quentin flushes, embarrassed, but doesn't deny it. "Well, that got me through undergrad! And last semester. But I don't - This is the way I've always taken notes, its flexible and can handle a lot of information or only a little bit, so I don't get why it's suddenly so much more difficult." He blows out a frustrated breath, runs one hand harshly through his hair. "The shit at Brakebills South was difficult, but we couldn't take notes or anything, there."

"I don't know what to say to you, Q," Julia says. "My note-taking still works great for me. Do you want to see how I do it?"

"I doubt it’s gonna suddenly be any more helpful for me than it ever was before," Quentin sighs. 

Julia rolls her eyes. "You need to go over your notes after every class and rewrite them," she says. "Filter out the stuff that isn't important and present the stuff that is in a helpful way."

"I know that, Jules," Quentin says irritably. "The problem is I can't figure what is helpful and what isn't."

"Then maybe we should sit down together after each class, and I can help you figure it out."

"Maybe," Quentin says, but he doesn't look very enthusiastic about the idea. He changes the subject. "So your classes are going well, I guess? How's that thing with Penny and Kady going?"

"Ugh, it's not," Julia says, annoyed. "I hooked up with Kady right after we got back, but she won't talk about Penny and the last time I spoke to him he just told me to tell you to make your wards stronger."

"Have you considered _not_ hooking up with them every time you see them and talking with them instead?" Quentin asks, ignoring the comment about his mental wards for the moment. 

Julia pulls a face at him. "Like you've _talked_ to Eliot?"

"I've never hooked up with Eliot," Quentin counters. "There's nothing for us to talk about. But you've hooked up with _both_ Penny and Kady, and I know they've slept with each other. You guys have plenty to talk about."

"What about you and Alice?" Julia shoots back. "There's plenty for you guys to talk about, too."

"Yeah, but we talked before the break, and we agreed to take things slow to get to being friends."

Julia rolls her eyes. "Then it looks like you're in exactly the same position as me," she says. "Stuck between what you had and what you want."

Quentin rolls his eyes as well. "Yeah, except that _if_ I'm in a similar position, it’s only with one person. You've got two."

"Which makes mine even more complicated!"

"Which makes communication even more important! You have no excuse here, Jules," Quentin says, exasperated. "Honestly, Margo and Kady are gonna end up killing each other. They nearly did after Kady found out about the first time you and Penny had sex."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Julia demands.

"I mean, Kady got really damn pissy and _jealous,_ and she and Margo got into a huge fight that Eliot, Alice, and I had to break up before it turned magical," Quentin says. "And she got moody again this week, but she mostly stuck to her room and Eliot and I managed to keep Margo away from her."

Julia frowns. "What's Margo's problem?"

Quentin shrugs. "She couldn't stand Kady's 'moping,'" he says, complete with air quotes. 

Julia rolls her eyes. "Maybe she should keep her nose out of other people's business," she snips. "She doesn't actually own Brakebills, y'know, or even the Cottage."

"You can go tell her that yourself," Quentin laughs. "Just make sure you do it outside, because I'm not stepping between you two when she fights back. She fights just as dirty as you do. Besides, things didn't come to a head with Kady last semester until the third day of her attitude. I'm just saying, there's _definitely_ something for you guys to talk about."

Julia's jaw tightens, the way it does when she's not happy with the outcome of an argument but she can't take it any further. "I'll think about it," she says. " _If_ you do."

Quentin sighs, the way he does when he knows he's been offered the best he'll get. "Alright," he agrees. 

Julia gives him a strained smile. "Great. Now show me your notes from today's class."

* * *

Even though Julia’s notetaking method still doesn’t work for Quentin, she does help him start sorting through what information is useful and what isn’t in his own notes. She offers her own for him to compare to, so that he can fill in important information he missed, and by the time they leave the library, Quentin feels slightly better about where he’s at, academically speaking.

Friday’s classes put him back at square one, but Quentin determinedly doesn’t think about that too hard. Instead, he focuses on the party; by the time he gets back to the Cottage for dinner, it’s already starting, and Quentin heads up the stairs only long enough to put his bag and notes away, determined not to look at them again until Sunday. When he comes back down, Eliot hands him a glass of Blue Thing that Quentin barely manages to resist downing in one go. Instead, he nurses it through the Hot Pockets he heats up in the kitchen, only returning for a refill once he has some solid food in his stomach.

Then, Margo pulls him out into the main crowd of people, still determined to keep him from being a perpetual wallflower, and Quentin loses track of time as he talks and - once or twice - dances. Alice didn’t manage to escape Margo this time, apparently, because while she’s wearing one of her usual outfits, she’s also wearing more makeup than normal, and it looks _really_ good on her. Quentin tells her so, open and honest without a hint of flirting, and is pleasantly surprised by the genuine smile he gets in return. 

Eventually, however, Quentin winds his way back through the crowd to the bar, taking up his usual seat. “God, what time is it?” he groans, dropping his head to his arm briefly - he doesn’t dare actually touch the countertop, not while Eliot’s working on what looks like a cuba libre for someone. “Feels like fucking midnight already.”

"Just before," Eliot says, and smiles. "You did very well. Do you want anything?"

"Can I get a proper daiquiri?" Quentin asks, hopeful.

Eliot laughs. "Sure," he says. "Not worried about the hangover this time?"

"Nope," Quentin says firmly. "I'm leaving schoolwork alone until Sunday, so I have all day tomorrow to sleep off a hangover."

"Smart," Eliot tells him. He passes the cuba libre to the man who asked for it, letting a smirk grace his lips when the man's touch lingers just a little too long. He doesn't give him anything else, though, so the guy wanders off a moment later and Eliot reaches for the rum. "Raspberry? Plum? Strawberry?"

"Plum sounds good," Quentin decides after a moment's thought. "He was cute."

"Was he?" Eliot asks, his tone deliberately light. "I didn't notice."

"Really?" Quentin laughs. " _You_ didn't notice if the guy right in front of you was cute?" He shakes his head, smiling. "Okay."

"I wasn't looking," Eliot insists primly. " _You_ clearly were, though."

"He was _right_ there, and clearly coming on to you," Quentin protests, face flushing. "Little hard not to notice when it's that obvious."

Eliot smirks at him. "If you say so," he says, and flips the blender on.

* * *

Hours later, Quentin finds himself well on the way to drunk, curled up in the reading nook he loves so much and contemplating life. This isn't really an unusual way to close out the Cottage parties for Quentin. What marks this as different from every other Friday night is that somehow, for some reason, Eliot is tucked in against his side. He abandoned the bar about thirty minutes ago and came to find him, a bottle of their favourite wine and two glasses in hand with the promise of summoning a second bottle if they need one. Quentin isn't sure they will. They're talking more than they're drinking, in low, thoughtful murmurs so as not to attract the attention of the few partygoers who are keeping the night going.

When he's sober again, Quentin might remark on how strange this whole night has been, but for now he's more interested in the way Eliot, easily as drunk as Quentin himself if not more so, is allowing his head to loll against Quentin's shoulder, his voice deep and soothing in his ear. "Did you see your mom over break?" he's asking, and Quentin doesn't even feel the usual defensiveness he does when someone asks about his mom. Maybe that's the alcohol acting as a buffer - or maybe it's just Eliot.

"Yeah," Quentin answers, more of a sigh than anything else. "During the usual Christmas-slash-New Year's family gathering. Didn't talk a whole lot, though."

"How come?" Eliot asks, light in a way that suggests he won't push if Quentin doesn't want to answer.

Quentin takes a hearty gulp of wine before answering. "Because every time we talk for more than a minute, she asks if I'm 'done with the whole depression thing yet,'" he says, unable to help the bitter note. "Like the depression, anxiety, and hospitalizations are all just - just fucking for _attention,_ or something. And that's not even touching the bi- and homophobia she pretends she doesn't have."

Eliot winces, and takes a drink from his wine glass for the first time in at least half an hour. "Having at least one shitty parent seems to be a prerequisite for being a magician."

Quentin tilts his head, resting his cheek against the top of Eliot's head with a quiet sigh. "Which one is yours?" he asks, quiet enough that it won't travel beyond their little nook. 

Eliot laughs, equally quiet. "Take your pick."

Quentin makes a sympathetic noise, giving Eliot's thigh a gentle, comforting squeeze. He hesitates for a moment before asking, "They had problems with you being gay?"

Eliot drains the rest of his wine, and when he answers, his voice is so soft that Quentin can barely hear him. "Trust me," he says, "the fact that I like boys was the least of their problems."

Beyond the haze of alcohol, Quentin's mind is already working, trying to figure out what Eliot means. Rather than ask and risk their comfortable little atmosphere, though, Quentin holds his breath for just a moment. He lets it out slowly, squeezes Eliot's leg again, and gives in to the urge to shift just enough so he can press his lips to the top of Eliot's head for just a moment. "Well," he murmurs, settling back into his former position, "their fucking loss, because you're goddamn amazing."

Quentin feels Eliot's smile against his shoulder, but then he shifts so that he can sit up properly. Quentin misses the heat of him against his side instantly. "As tempting as that second bottle is, I think for once I should probably stop myself before I go too far." He turns back to give Quentin a soft look. "I don't want us to regret anything tonight. I'll see you in the morning?"

Quentin tries not to look as put-out as he feels. "It's already morning," he points out instead, giving Eliot a grin that softens before he continues. "Yeah, I'll see you later, El."

* * *

Eliot is up early enough the next day to cook everyone a spectacular hangover breakfast, despite the fact that for the first time in a while his own hangover is basically non-existent. He stays long enough to smile at Quentin from across the dining room before he takes Margo's plate up to her room, kicks the nameless third year out of her bed and coaxes her to eat in low, soothing tones. He has his own breakfast at the same time, and returns downstairs only once she's ready to go back to sleep.

Most people have finished eating by now, and there's a stack of plates beside the sink high enough to almost make him regret his generosity. Still, washing the dishes by hand sounds like it would be a soothing task right now. He's got his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows and he's just dunking the first plate into warm, soapy water when Quentin walks in. "Hey," Eliot says, turning his head slightly. "How are you feeling?"

”Like I had two daiquiris, a Blue Thing, and a bottle of wine too quickly,” Quentin says, rubbing a hand over his face. He gives Eliot a smile, though. “No regrets, however. Promise. Need some help there?”

"You can dry, if you want," Eliot says. "I'm not using magic on purpose."

Quentin hums an assent, moving closer and grabbing a towel. "So, are hangover breakfasts a regular thing with you?"

Eliot laughs. "You haven't been around much the morning after our parties, have you?" He hands the first plate over and reaches for the next. "I like cooking for people. And I'm at my most productive when I'm so hungover I might die, so it usually works out."

Quentin snorts, smiling. "That seems counterintuitive," he muses, shaking his head as he dries the plate that Eliot just handed him. "But yeah, usually I'm still in my room recovering from all the people and noise. But last night was... It was good."

Eliot feels something in his stomach tense. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Quentin doesn't say anything else for a moment, and then he takes a deep breath, and turns so he's facing Eliot more fully. "Look, I'm not gonna pry," he starts. "Because I know how complicated family can get, and because I don't... Because I care about you, and don't want to make you uncomfortable. But if you ever want - or need - to talk about it, or anything else..." Quentin shrugs with one shoulder, his smile turning wry as he glances down at the plate in his hands. "Well, I can't say I can offer any advice, but I can listen. No judgment, just... a sympathetic ear."

Eliot lets the plate slip from his grasp and turns to look at Quentin, his heart racing, soap suds dripping from his fingers onto the floor. He searches Quentin's face for a long moment, but he can't find anything there that makes sense, so he just - swallows. "Thanks, Q," he says, and he even means it.

The smile Quentin gives him then is soft, tender, and ache-inducing. Luckily, he doesn't drag it out too long, turning back to the counter and nodding at the sink. "Better make sure you didn't chip that."

Eliot rolls his eyes. "Dramatic as ever," he teases, and hands him the plate. "Just dry."

* * *

Tuesday morning finds Alice in the Physical Cottage kitchen at the very crack of dawn - but there’s someone already there. The sight of Eliot sitting at the table, his head in his hands as he stares blankly at the wall opposite him makes her pause, but she’s been up since two o’clock researching, and she needs food, so she continues into the kitchen. As her oatmeal heats up, Alice can’t help but look back at Eliot; he’s frowning now, almost thoughtful, and despite herself, her curiosity is piqued. So, when her breakfast is ready, she slides into one of the other chairs at the table. “You look… still drunk,” she decides, studying Eliot. “What are you doing up this early?”

"I haven't slept," Eliot says, without looking up. His voice is rough and raspy, like he hasn't used it in a few hours. "At least, I don't think I have. I'm definitely still drunk, though."

Alice hums thoughtfully, taking a bite of her oatmeal, chewing and swallowing before asking, "Any particular reason why you're drunk at six-thirty in the morning?"

"Because I only stopped drinking about two hours ago?" Eliot guesses. "What's your excuse?"

"I've been up doing research for a project," Alice says primly. "What's got you staying up all night drinking? I thought day-drinking was more your style."

"It was day-drinking to begin with," Eliot offers, "but then I guess I just didn't stop." He sighs. "You try getting into a _real_ relationship for the first time in your adult life, only to find out that he's not who you thought he was and everything was a lie. See where you end up."

Alice raises an eyebrow. "You mean like when your first boyfriend and you get together because a sadistic, drunken asshole of a professor turns you into foxes, you fuck, and then think that means something more than what it does?"

"Okay," Eliot says, and inclines his head. "Point. But unless I've woefully misjudged our resident socially-awkward nerd, I doubt Quentin sat politely while you told him all of your deepest, darkest secrets and then spat them back into your face like so much acid."

"... No," Alice concedes, shifting in place as she studies Eliot for another moment. "But Mike did, didn't he?" she asks quietly. "And you're thinking about telling Quentin the same thing he threw back in your face."

Eliot pulls a face. "I'm pretty sure you brought Quentin into this, not me."

Alice shrugs. "Am I wrong? Either way, Mike was a dick, even I could see that. You shouldn't count his reaction as the norm."

Eliot drops his head into his hands, his elbows braced on the table. "But how am I supposed to _trust_ anyone again?" he asks. "Even if the person is trustworthy. How am I supposed to make myself open my mouth and say the words?"

"You could always try a crowbar," Alice says dryly before sighing and looking down at her bowl. "I don't know. It's always hard, trusting someone, even without..." She waves her hand in a vague gesture. " _That_ sort of baggage complicating things. But you can't - be an island, forever. It'll destroy you, wear you down."

"And if it was Quentin?" Eliot asks, peeking at Alice from between his fingers. "I know you two aren't great, yet. But would you talk to him about... anything?"

Alice drums her fingers on the table, expression thoughtful. "I would," she says after a moment. "He's not... _bad,_ or a jerk, mostly. He can be a bit thoughtless and oblivious, sometimes, but if it's something important, I'd trust him with it, because he cares."

Eliot nods slowly. "All right," he says. "Thanks, Alice."

"You're welcome," she says, smiling. "You should probably get some sleep, though; you look like shit. Your eyeliner's all smudged."

Eliot laughs, but gets to his feet. "All right," he says, "I'll see you... at some point. Later." He makes it almost to the stairs before he turns back to Alice with a smile. "Hey. You know your aunt, Genji?"

One eyebrow rises. "Obviously I know her; she's my _aunt._ "

Eliot waves a dismissive hand. "Yeah, yeah. Do you think you could put in a good word for me?"

The other eyebrow climbs to match the first. "Maybe," she says after a moment. " _If_ you quit day drinking like you're a reverse Jesus. Aunt Genji won't tolerate any nonsense."

"Hmm," Eliot says. "That might be something of a tall order just now. Maybe we'll try again for next year."

Alice laughs. "Maybe," she says, smiling. "Seriously, go get some sleep, Eliot. Don't make any big decisions when you're sleep-deprived."

Eliot turns back to the stairs with a wave.

* * *

Eliot spends the rest of the day trying to sober up, and thinking. More than once the temptation to reach for another bottle is almost overwhelming, but he doesn't think his stomach would thank him for that and besides, he doesn't want to be drunk for this. He needs a clear head. Which is also why he doesn't go to Margo. He loves his Bambi dearly, but her response to almost any problem of an emotional nature is to get so drunk that you forget you have emotions at all.

So he's completely sober and hating every second of it when he finally reaches the conclusion that there's only one way forward, if he wants to move forward at all rather than stagnating where he's been stuck since before Christmas. Which means that he's completely sober when he crosses the hall to Quentin's room and, heart in his throat, knocks on the door.

There's the sound of shuffling from the other door, a _thump_ and a muffled curse, before the door opens to reveal Quentin, in a worn-out t-shirt and sweatpants. He blinks, then smiles. "Hey, El. Something up?"

All the words on Eliot's tongue just dry up. He coughs. "Um, yeah," he says, and smooths his hands anxiously down the front of his vest. "Can I come in?"

"Yeah, sure, come on in," Quentin says, stepping back hastily to give Eliot room to enter. 

Eliot follows him inside, but pauses in the middle of the room, too full of nervous energy to sit on the bed like he normally would. "Were you in the middle of something?" he asks.

"Just studying," Quentin answers, the door falling shut behind him as he moves to tidy up the mess of notes at the foot of the bed. "Trying to figure out what's important and what's not so I have good material to study from, you know." Once the notes are safely stored on his desk, Quentin turns back to Eliot, his gaze searching. "Are you... okay? You look like you're just about ready to fly out of your skin."

Eliot chokes on a laugh. "I am," he says. He blows out a breath. "There's something I need to talk to you about. I-- Do you want to sit?"

"Sure," Quentin says, settling onto the bed and watching Eliot carefully. "You need to pace?"

"Maybe," Eliot says, and starts doing just that. "You said the other day that... That I could talk to you. If I needed to. Did you mean that?"

"Yes," Quentin says without hesitation, and without taking his eyes off of Eliot. "I meant it."

"Okay," Eliot says. "So. When you got into that ridiculous fight with Penny a couple weeks into last semester and you thought you were going to get kicked out, I sat you down and I told you all about how I killed Logan Kinnear. Like that was my biggest, darkest secret. Right?"

"Right," Quentin says, nodding slowly. "I remember."

"Okay," Eliot says, still pacing. "Well, I haven't killed anyone else. Not to the best of my knowledge. But I told you that because it was relevant at the time, and also because it's... honestly, hardly anything. I have other secrets. Much deeper, much more uncomfortable secrets. Things I hadn't told anyone except Margo, until I met Mike."

Quentin straightens. "Oh, shit."

Eliot's mouth twists. "Yeah," he says. "I shouldn't have told him anything. I barely knew him. But I wanted to, and I wanted so badly to, I don't know, to be _seen_ by someone and not... found wanting." He laughs. "Big mistake, right? Mike took one look at the real me and he was fucking disgusted. And I know my own worth, all right? I've spent most of my adult life teaching myself that I don't need anyone but me." He glances at Quentin. "But he made me feel safe, and I wasn't."

"Fucker," Quentin says immediately, scowling briefly before apparently refocusing, expression shifting back to one of concern as he watches Eliot. "He deserves to have his balls hexed off, but you're safe here, El. I mean, you already told me you killed someone, so."

Eliot sighs. "I know," he says. "I know you're a good person, and I know you won't use it against me. It's just... It's a fucking lot, Q. Margo only knows because she was my partner during the Trials. But." He blows out a breath. "I care about you. You're somehow my best fucking friend after Margo, and that means you're really important to me, and I think I need to tell you. I think you deserve to know."

Quentin gives Eliot an encouraging smile. "I care about you, too," he says. "Just as much. Take your time, El."

"Okay," Eliot says. He stops pacing, and shakes out his hands, and makes himself face Quentin. "There are two things that both underpin and completely undermine the existence of the Eliot Waugh you see before you. It might be difficult for you to believe, but I haven't always been this fabulous." He smiles, but it's forced, and it fades quickly. He can't joke this away. "The first thing is that until I left home when I was eighteen, I lived in Indiana. On a farm."

Quentin blinks. "Oh," he says, quietly. "I can see why that could be a hard thing to talk about."

"Yeah," Eliot says. "So when you asked me about my parents on Friday night... They were heavy drinkers, very religious. Like, 'religious'." This last was accompanied by added air-quotes. "And they had very rigid ideas about, like, gender roles and marriage and all the things you'd expect from an alcoholic, Bible-bashing, abusive household."

Quentin winces. "Christ," he murmurs. "That sounds like it was hell to grow up around."

Eliot pulls a face. "It was a nightmare," he says. "Even before I started growing up and figuring out, you know, that I was different."

Quentin nods, his expression sympathetic. "It sounds like it. They... didn't take it well, I assume?"

Eliot snorts indelicately. "Not in the way you're thinking," he says. "The day my mom caught me kissing Michael Wood behind our barn, she looked delighted. Like, happier than I've ever seen her. But then she saw what I was wearing."

Quentin frowns, clearly confused - but then something like comprehension begins to dawn. "What were you wearing?" he asks, quiet. 

Rather than answer right away, Eliot takes a breath, choosing his words carefully. "I told you the other day that it wasn't me liking boys that was the problem," he says. "By the time I was fifteen, my mom had absolutely no issue with me sneaking off to kiss boys. Her issue was with the fact that I was wearing boys' clothes while I did it."

"Oh, Eliot," Quentin breathes, expression pained. 

Eliot shakes his head. His throat feels like it's going to close over, but he _will not cry_. "She told me that she'd been praying for me for years, for me to be to be _normal_ , but I'd gone too far, and I'd given her no choice. She dragged me home to my father, and that was the first time he really hit me."

Quentin doesn't say anything for a moment, and then he gets to his feet, stepping forward so he can reach out, lay his hand on Eliot's arm. "That's awful," he says, quiet but sure. "You didn't deserve that, El."

Eliot almost jumps out of his skin, but he doesn't let himself shy away from Quentin's touch. When he speaks again, though, he can't help the way his voice shakes. "He said that if I was going to act like a man, he'd treat me like one. He beat the fucking shit out of me, Q, I thought I was going to die."

"That's bullshit," Quentin says fiercely. "That's - " He blows out a breath. "Can I hug you?"

Eliot blinks at him for a long moment, his lips parted in surprise. "I--" he starts, and his voice breaks. He swallows and tries again. "Yeah."

Quentin wastes no time in wrapping his arms around Eliot, hugging him like it can convey everything he can't put words to. "Thank you for telling me," he says, muffled in Eliot's vest. "I hate that you grew up with that, but I'm glad I know you now."

All of the tension drains out of Eliot's body, and he hugs Quentin back tight. "Me too," he says. It's all he can manage.

They stand like that for several long moments before Quentin pulls back, his grip on Eliot loosening but not letting him go completely just yet. "You wanna come lie down, maybe watch Netflix?"

"That actually sounds pretty great," Eliot admits. "Whatever you want to watch is fine."

" _Nailed It_?" Quentin suggests, stepping back and letting one hand slide down Eliot's arm to circle his wrist in a loose grasp. 

Eliot looks down at Quentin's hand like he's not quite sure what to do with it, but then he smiles. "Of course that's your go-to when I've just unloaded years of emotional baggage all over you."

"It's a good show to process things with," Quentin laughs, tugging at Eliot's hand briefly. "Come on, let's get settled."

Eliot lets Quentin lead him to the bed, helpless to do anything else.

* * *

One episode becomes two, becomes four, becomes Eliot doesn't even know. He's not really paying attention, absorbed as he is by the heat of Quentin next to him; the comforting weight of his hand on his hip where they're curled together on the bed so that they can see Quentin's laptop; the fact that Quentin's still here at all.

He doesn't know how to begin to process everything he's feeling right now, but above all else he's relieved. It's not that he expected Quentin to take it badly. Quentin is probably the least judgemental person he knows. But everything he revealed tonight is in direct contrast to the version of himself that he projects into the world; it wouldn't be weird if Quentin's view of him had changed. As far as he can tell, though, it hasn't. At least not yet. Eliot tries not to worry about what might happen when Quentin has time alone to think about it all.

As is often the case, Eliot doesn't notice when he falls asleep. One moment he's gazing thoughtfully at the side of Quentin's face, his expression relaxed and open and clearly interested in the show. Eliot doesn't even know what's happening in it. The next moment, it's morning. Quentin's laptop doesn't seem to be on the bed, which means either Quentin stayed awake long enough to put it away before settling in to sleep beside him, or they both fell asleep and kicked it to the floor. He doesn't know which option he likes more.

He's only slept in the same bed as Quentin once before, and he can't help but draw comparisons. Sure, they're not in Eliot's bed this time, and Margo isn't asleep on the other side of him, but the sleepy, bone-deep contentment is there, as is the mild panic that he just fucked everything up. Still, he can't allow himself to dwell on these things for long, and he reaches out to grasp Quentin's shoulder.

"Hey, wake up. Do you have class this morning?"

Quentin wakes with a disgruntled noise. "Wha?" he yawns, frowning at Eliot, uncomprehending, for a moment before his expression clears. "Not this morning, this afternoon. Morning class was cancelled 'due to an unfortunate run-in with an unexpected plant hybrid.'" This last is mumbled as Quentin shifts on the bed, resettling himself more comfortably against Eliot. "You?"

Eliot hums. "No," he says. "I'm a free agent. Go back to sleep, Q."

"'M up now, though," Quentin argues, but it's sleepy, no real weight behind the words. He yawns again, turning so it's not directly in Eliot's face, at least, and then looks back up at him, something almost unrecognizable in his expression. "You staying?"

Eliot feels the cold wash of panic sweep over him, but he fights it off. "I mean, if you want your own space I don't have to."

"No, this is comfortable," Quentin says, and then he - he fucking _nestles_ into the blankets, like he's proving a point. "If you want to stay, you can. Or you can head out, if you want some space."

Eliot's next exhale is more of a breathy laugh. "We're getting better at this awkward morning after thing," he says, "but it's still not great."

Quentin snorts inelegantly, the corner of his mouth curled in a smile. "Practice makes perfect?" he tries, but it falls somewhat short of truly teasing. He reaches out then, rests his fingertips against Eliot's wrist. "At least this time it’s just us."

"Most people in this cottage would kill to wake up in Margo's bed," Eliot says, teasing.

"Alice nearly did kill me with words after I did; kinda put me off the whole thing," Quentin says dryly, still smiling. "Honestly, my ears were ringing all day."

Eliot pulls a face. "I never really got her problem," he says. "You guys were broken up by then, right?"

Quentin grimaces. "Yeah. Um. The night before? There was lots of yelling, but mostly she was pissed I 'didn't wait longer than twenty-four hours before climbing into bed with not one, but two people.' With a lot more swearing."

"I mean, okay," Eliot says, "in the literal sense, sure. But it's not like anything _happened_."

"She saw me leaving your room shirtless," Quentin points out. "After the three of us got drunk downstairs, then went _upstairs_ together. And, I mean. We didn't have sex, but we all kinda made out a bit before we passed out for good. And Margo insisted she wasn't changing her habit of sleeping naked just because we weren't fucking."

Eliot closes his eyes with a groan. "I hardly remember that night," he admits. "It was right after Mike decided to make his real feelings known, and I was... a mess." He laughs. "I still am. But I woke up the next morning and Margo was naked and you and Alice were screaming at each other in the hallway and I just. Freaked out."

"Understandable," Quentin hums, his thumb skimming the skin of Eliot's wrist, just over his pulse. "I mean, I figured it was mostly the Alice and Mike things, why we didn't talk for a few days. But that wasn't all, I guess." His tone is gentle, no pressure - giving Eliot room to respond however he wants, to deflect or elaborate. 

Eliot takes his time, but he didn't pour his heart out last night for nothing. He needs to trust Quentin. "No, it wasn't," he admits. "I want you to know that it had nothing to do with you. I don't think you're like Mike, or my parents. But I'd just chosen to come out to someone who was supposed to love me, and he fucking... decimated me because of it. The thought of having slept with someone, anyone, and them knowing the truth?" He shakes his head. "Unbearable."

Quentin's hand shifts, twisting under the covers until he's holding Eliot's hand, their fingers twined together. "I get that," he says, quiet and sympathetic as he squeezes Eliot's hand. "Honestly, I always thought Mike deserved to get the shit hexed out of him, but now I think maybe we should've let Margo castrate him."

Eliot laughs softly. "It's not worth it," he says. "He's gone, and I learnt my fucking lesson."

Quentin studies his face intently for a moment before asking, "What lesson was that?"

"Don't think with your dick," Eliot answers. He hesitates. "Or any other organ."

"The brain's an organ," Quentin points out, teasing, even though there's a softness around his eyes that suggests he knows what Eliot's really getting at. "Shouldn't you think with that?"

Eliot rolls his eyes. "You know what I mean," he says. "I thought I loved him, and maybe I did, but that's not enough reason to trust someone."

Quentin's whole expression softens, and he squeezes Eliot's hand again. "Thank you for trusting me," he murmurs. "I... I kind of want to ask, y'know, about your childhood, but. I get that last night was a lot, so feel free to tell me to shut up."

Eliot sighs, but he doesn't pull away. "What do you want to know?" he asks.

"Did you have many friends?" Quentin asks, voice and expression still equally soft. 

"Oh, wow," Eliot says, and he sits up, his hand slipping from Quentin's. "I'm going to need to smoke for this. Do you mind?"

Quentin pushes himself upright as well, watching Eliot with concern writ clear on his expression. "No, I don't mind."

Eliot spreads his hands over the quilt across his lap, and twists his fingers in a series of fluid tuts until a battered pack of cigarettes appears between them. He pulls a cigarette free, lights it with another tut, and flicks the rest of the pack in Quentin's direction. "Help yourself," he says, and takes a deep drag. His whole body seems to melt at that first hit of nicotine. "I told you I was bullied in school. Even when I was, y'know." He wrinkles his nose. "Before. I was weird enough that it didn't seem to matter. I guess a lot of people subscribed to my father's view; if I wanted to act like a boy..."

"Assholes," Quentin mutters, taking a cigarette and lighting it. His own drag isn't as deep as Eliot's, and he's still watching Eliot with that soft, open expression, waiting for him to tell the story at his own pace. 

"Yeah, well," Eliot says, and blows out a plume of smoke. "Anyway, I had this friend. His name was Taylor. My parents weren't really comfortable with the fact that he was a boy, but, whatever. We were both kind of weird, didn't have many other friends, but we were close. Really close. Until, of course, I ruined everything."

"What happened?"

"I think some of the guys that used to bully us caught him kissing another boy," Eliot says. "They beat the crap out of him. I caught them doing it, and they were calling him a faggot and everything else you can imagine." He takes another deep drag. "I just, stood there and watched. When the teachers finally came over to break it up he was a fucking mess, and they kind of deposited him with me, because they knew we were friends. But the bullies were still there and they were watching, so I told him that I didn't want a disgusting fag as a friend. Never spoke to him again."

"Shit," Quentin breathes. "That sounds like it was a rock and a hard place, El."

"It was a shitty thing to do to the only friend I had," Eliot says. "And it didn't even help me. The bullies kept bullying, and my dad and my brothers kept beating the shit out of me at home, and my mom kept standing by and letting it happen. I guess I inherited some of the family traits. A tendency towards alcoholism and the ability to turn a blind eye when someone I care about is in trouble."

"You were trying to protect yourself," Quentin says. "And it doesn't sound like they actually cared about you at all."

Eliot barks out a harsh laugh. He taps his ash out onto the duvet and then vanishes it with a simple tut. "No," he says, "they certainly didn't. That's why I got out of there as soon as I could and never looked back."

"Good," Quentin says firmly. He hesitates for a moment, then asks, "Was there... anyone in your family you were close to?"

"Uhh, no," Eliot says. He takes a drag while he thinks. "My grandma liked me when I was little. Liked having me in the kitchen. I was the youngest, and I only had brothers. The day after my mom caught me kissing Michael, she called me crying, wanted to know why I was going against God and doing this to myself. She told me I was _such a pretty little girl_." He laughs. "Like that helped."

Quentin winces. "Jesus." He takes another drag of his cigarette, holds the smoke in his lungs for a moment. "Well, for what it's worth, cutting them all out was the right move."

Eliot laughs. "Thanks," he says. "I know."

The two of them sit in silence for a while, smoking, before Quentin shifts closer, nudging Eliot's shoulder with his own. "Hey," he says, holding his cigarette out to the side so he doesn't drop ash on the bed. "I heard from my dad; he's going to pick up supplies for those brownies I told you about, make a batch this weekend when I go visit. I'll bring some back and you'll finally eat your words about nothing being better than sex."

Eliot blinks, thrown, and then grins. "We'll fucking see."

* * *

Eliot spends the rest of the morning with Quentin and sees him off to class in the afternoon. He's reached the point where he doesn't really know what classes he has on a Wednesday, but he's starting to think that maybe he should find out.

The rest of the week passes in a similar fashion. They don't share a bed again, but they spend a lot of time together. Eliot's really going to miss him when he goes back to Jersey, even if it's just for the weekend. He gives Quentin a big hug before he leaves, but he doesn't walk him to the edge of campus like he wants to. Instead, he walks him to the Cottage door, and then heads back upstairs to Margo's room.

"Hello," he says, walking in without knocking and dropping down onto her bed. "Do you happen to have my class schedule?"

Margo waves a hand towards her desk. "Somewhere over there," she says, watching Eliot through the mirror where she's touching up her makeup before the evening's party. "Why?"

"I think I should actually start going to class," Eliot muses. "Stop trying to drink myself into an early grave? Who knows."

Margo raises an eyebrow, spinning in her chair to look at Eliot intently. "Who are you, and what have you done with Eliot Waugh?"

Eliot's eyes widen. "I know," he says, "I don't recognise me either. I think I hate it."

Margo purses her lips, expression thoughtful. "What brought on the sudden desire for major life changes?" she asks, arms crossed over her chest, one finger tapping her chin as she stares at Eliot expectantly. 

Eliot sighs. "Nothing," he says. "At least, not one thing. I just think it's time for a fresh start."

"Really? What kind of revelation did you _have_ last week?"

Eliot laughs. "I got drunk with Q, told him some stuff about my parents," he says. "Then I went and found him while I was sober and told him the rest."

" _All_ of the rest?" Margo demands, clearly surprised. 

Eliot can't help the smile that twitches at the corners of his mouth. "Yeah," he says. "I told him everything."

"I guess that besotted look means I don't have to eviscerate our resident supernerd?" Margo asks archly, her own lips twitching. 

"No," Eliot says. "He was really good about it, Bambi. He just hugged me and told me he's glad that I got out, that he knows me now."

"Good," Margo says, satisfied - and then a gleam enters her eye. "And I bet he was glad you spent the night, hm?"

Eliot feels a muscle in his jaw twitch. "How do you know about that?"

"Because I know everything that goes on in this house," Margo snorts. "Come on, spill. I've been patient enough."

Eliot rolls his eyes. "Nothing happened," he says. "We just watched Netflix and fell asleep. And talked. A lot."

Margo looks almost _disappointed_ by this - she's certainly not satisfied with the answer Eliot gave - but she doesn't push. "Well, if he _does_ start acting like a cock, it'll be a perfect chance to try out those new hexes I found."

"Don't," Eliot says, laughing. "Quentin's a good person. Better than we'll ever be."

Margo sighs. "Maybe, but you're my best friend, and I seriously regret not hexing the everloving fuck out of Mike."

Eliot sighs. "I know. But you were too busy holding me together, and that's more important." He smiles at her. "Thank you, Bambi."

"Yeah, yeah," Margo says, rolling her eyes - but her smile belies her annoyance. "Don't go getting all mushy on me, Waugh. I think that might be a little much on top of the newfound desire to be _academic._ "

"Fuck you," Eliot spits, but he's grinning.

* * *

Eliot is lounging on the grass at the back of the Cottage when Quentin gets back, smoking and enjoying a cocktail with Margo. He doesn't do anything dramatic like leap to his feet and rush over to hug him, but he does wave a lazy hand, the one holding his cigarette, and smile. "Quentin, join us. How was your trip?"

"Pretty good, overall," Quentin says, settling onto the grass next to Eliot, putting a large Tupperware container down by his bag. "Dad seemed a little tired, but he still made brownies."

"Brownies?" Margo asks, sitting up. "Gimme."

Eliot smirks. "He claims they're better than sex," he tells her.

Margo scoffs. "I'll be the judge of that."

"I can't tell if you just have no faith in my dad's baking, or if you're too obsessed with sex," Quentin muses, reaching for the Tupperware and prying the lid off. He grabs one of the wrapped brownies, passing it to Margo, and then another, handing it off to Eliot. "I used a small heating charm to keep them warm, that's when they're best."

"They smell good," Margo allows grudgingly.

Eliot already has his teeth around one. "Oh," he mumbles, one hand up to cover his mouth as he chews. " _God._ "

Margo's eyebrows shoot up, and she takes a bite, too. She reserves her judgement until she's swallowed, by which time Eliot barely has a single bite left. "Okay," she says. "They're all right."

"Fuck you," Eliot spits, and plucks her brownie from her fingers.

"Hey!"

Quentin laughs, handing over the brownie he'd just unwrapped and grabbing another for himself. "Told you these were good," he says smugly. 

"I'll never doubt you again," Eliot vows.

Margo rolls her eyes. "They're good," she says, "but they're not better than _sex_. All this tells me is that the two of you are having some pretty shitty sex."

"Rude," Quentin snorts, but he's smiling, leaning back on one hand and into Eliot's space as he eats his brownie with the other. "Alright then, Ms Connoisseur, what kind of baked goods do _you_ like, if caramel brownies don't do it for you?"

"Oh, they do it for me," Margo says, and takes another bite just to prove it. "I just don't think you can ever replace sex with food."

Quentin scoffs. "Sure you can't," he says, rolling his eyes, lips twitching into a small smile. "Well, at least I fulfilled my goal of making Eliot eat his words." He nudges Eliot's shoulder with his own, smile growing into a grin as he does so.

"Can I please also eat another brownie?" Eliot asks, imploring.

Margo gags. "Get a fucking room," she says. "Maybe you'll be able to work out together just how good sex can be."

Quentin flushes, throwing the wrapper of his brownie in Margo's direction. "It's a huge campus, you don't have to sit _here_ ," he complains, reaching for another brownie to hand to Eliot. "If we're bothering you, you can leave."

"No," Margo says, smirking. "I don't think I will." She pops the last of her brownie into her mouth.

"Asshole," Quentin mutters, his face still hot. "I need to take some of these over to Julia, I promised I'd bring her back a couple."

"Then you should have gone to her first," Eliot complains.

"Excuse me for not wanting to risk her wrath by interrupting a study session," Quentin says, indignant. 

Eliot pouts. "Just one more? Please?"

"I just gave you another," Quentin laughs, even as he reaches into the container for one more. "Seriously, if I don't bring her these soon, she'll never let me hear the end of it when she finds out I stopped by here first."

"Fine," Eliot sighs, his eyes rolling dramatically. "But hurry back. We've got plans."

" _That's_ not ominous at all," Quentin says dryly, smiling as he pushes himself to his feet. "I'll talk to you guys later."

Margo blows him a kiss - and once Quentin has ambled out of sight, she cuts her gaze to Eliot. "You are absolutely ridiculous," she tells him.

Eliot rolls onto his back and stares up at the blue sky. "Fuck off."

* * *

Classes make the week pass quickly, and before Quentin knows it, Wednesday has come and gone, and the week is halfway over. He and Eliot have spent more time together, mostly in Eliot’s room, where Quentin alternates between desperate studying and bitching about Julia brushing him off in favor of - whatever the fuck it is she’s doing now with Penny and Kady. Eliot makes sympathetic noises at all the right points, plies Quentin with alcohol and the occasional cigarette when he gets too worked up, and then distracts him with Margo’s help. 

Thursday morning, Quentin is reviewing his notes in the living room, tucked away in his favorite reading nook, when his phone rings. He fumbles for it, answering quickly - and then almost drops it.

His notebooks are abandoned in the nook as he practically flies up the stairs to his room. Quentin is in the middle of packing a bag when there’s a knock on the doorframe, and when he glances over his shoulder, Quentin isn’t surprised to see Eliot there, his expression concerned. “Hey, can you bring me that jacket on the hanger next to you?” Quentin asks, turning back to his packing; his skin is practically crawling with anxiety, with the need to move _faster,_ but he can’t risk missing something, because he won’t be back for several days, at least.

Eliot takes the jacket off the hanger and brings it over. "What's going on?" he asks. "Are you being kicked out again?"

"Ha. No, um." Quentin folds the jacket into his bag, then blows out a breath, straightening. "It's - It's my dad. I, uh, got a call from the hospital. He had a sudden collapse, and they don't know what's going on, but Dean Fogg gave me permission to miss the rest of the week to go."

Eliot's expression slackens with shock. "Have you told Julia?"

Quentin pauses, then swears. "Fuck, I knew I was forgetting something."

"Do you want to call her?" Eliot asks. "Or I could go get her."

Quentin hesitates, thinking, and then shakes his head. "No, she's busy today, I can't pull her from her classes and shit."

But Eliot frowns. "Q, you don't look like you should be on your own right now."

Quentin blows out a breath. "It's fine," he says, like he's trying to convince not only Eliot but himself. "Really. I'll call her later, after her classes are done for the day."

Eliot steps further into the room and reaches out, lays a gentle hand on Quentin's arm. "Hey," he says. "She's not your only option."

Quentin looks at Eliot, uncomprehending. "What?"

"I'll come with you, if you want me to," Eliot says. "I know I don't know your dad like Julia does, but I can help with practical stuff, and I can provide, like, moral support or something."

Quentin's eyes widen. "You - Really? You want to come watch me be a nervous wreck over my dad?"

"I don't want you to have to do this alone," Eliot says. "If it'll help you, of course I'll come."

Quentin blinks. "Oh. Well, I - I appreciate that," he says honestly. "Um, I'll probably be gone until next week? But you don't have to stay the whole time, obviously."

Eliot shrugs. "It's not like I can't afford to miss a few more days of class. Margo can catch me up."

"Okay." Quentin takes a deep breath, gives Eliot a small but sincere smile. "Thanks. I guess if you're coming with me, you need to pack a bag, then."

Eliot nods. "I'll need to tell Margo I'm leaving, too," he says. "How long until you want to go?"

Quentin blows out a breath. "I want to head out as soon as possible," he admits. 

Eliot nods. "Okay," he says. "I'll meet you downstairs in ten?"

Quentin's smile is far too tired for how early in the day it is. "Ten minutes," he agrees. 

* * *

They meet down by the front door in exactly ten minutes, and then leave campus. Once they're off campus, they take the train to New Jersey, and from the station they take a cab to the hospital. Eliot stays in the waiting room with their things while Quentin sees his dad, and there's something deeply unsettling about seeing his father in a hospital bed, surrounded by machinery. He stays with Ted for over an hour, talking with nurses and doctors as they walk him and Ted through the current plan to figure out what caused his collapse - including an MRI. Eventually, Ted kicks him out to get some food and go update Eliot. 

Quentin's feet are dragging, and while, distantly, he knows that he really should eat something, since it's well past lunch time now, his stomach is so tied up in knots that he doesn't think he'd be able to keep anything down. When he spots Eliot in one corner of the waiting room, sitting in one of the two-person chairs, Quentin doesn't hesitate, just lets his tired feet carry him to the chair. He drops down beside Eliot, and immediately leans into him, sighing heavily. "Hey," he says, letting his head fall to Eliot's shoulder. "Dad's okay. Stable, at least, for now."

Eliot pets his hair a little, turns his head so that his lips brush Quentin's forehead when he speaks. "Do they know what happened?" he asks.

"No," Quentin mumbles. "They ruled out hypoglycemia, but there's a lot of tests they want to run, because it was so sudden. He's going in for an MRI soon."

"Okay," Eliot says quietly. He pets Quentin's hair some more, firm and reassuring and lovely. "What do you need? Can you go with him?"

"I really should eat, but I'm so anxious..." Quentin's voice trails off, and he sighs again. "I can't go in with him to the MRI. Dad basically kicked me out of the room, told me to go eat something while he was doing that. Depending on how that goes, he might have to spend the night for more monitoring, and we'll have to leave when visiting hours are up."

Eliot nods. "All right, well let's get you fed, and by the time we've eaten your dad should be back from his scan, right? We can even ask the nurse at the desk to call you when he comes out."

Quentin doesn't really want to move, but he nods nonetheless. "Yeah, okay."

"Come on," Eliot murmurs, and lets Quentin go so they can stand. "Let's find you the least shitty hospital sandwich we can."

Quentin manages a quiet laugh. "I think their food is actually decent here? But who knows, it's been years since my appendectomy."

"If yours was anything like mine," Eliot says lightly, "you were too high afterwards to remember the food anyway."

Quentin considers that for a moment. "Probably," he concedes. "So let's see how much the painkillers affected my sense of taste, then."

* * *

The food is pretty decent by hospital standards, and Eliot even manages to get Quentin to eat a whole sandwich without throwing up. It's impressive, and Eliot tells him he's proud of him just for the way he huffs and shoves at him and blushes just a little. They're already walking back up to the ward when Quentin's phone goes off, a nurse calling him to tell him his father is back from the MRI like they asked. Eliot settles himself back into his chair in the waiting room while Quentin goes through to see him, and stays there for another hour.

He's flicking through a three-month-old copy of Women's Weekly when the doors open and Quentin emerges from his father's room. Eliot looks up. Quentin seems to have aged years in the time since he got that call at the Cottage; he looks tired and worn and like he's carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. Eliot gets to his feet, the magazine hanging loosely in one hand. "Are we being kicked out?" he asks.

Quentin nods, the set of his mouth conveying how unhappy he is with this development even before he speaks. "Yeah, visiting hours are over, so we're being kicked out until tomorrow." He takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. "Let's grab our stuff and catch a cab back to the house."

Eliot just picks up both of their bags and wraps his free arm around Quentin's shoulders as they walk out of the ward. "I know it sucks," he says quietly once they're heading down a corridor that will lead them to the main entrance, "but it's kind of a good thing we have to leave."

Quentin looks at Eliot with a raised eyebrow. "How so?"

"If it was really bad, they'd let you stay," Eliot says.

Quentin makes a face, like he's not entirely sure whether that's reassuring, before sighing. "Yeah, you're right. Come on, let's head home. I hope Dad went grocery shopping this week, otherwise we might need to depend on delivery food."

"Or we could just go shopping," Eliot points out. "I can cook."

"I don't think I can go shopping tonight," Quentin confesses, sounding exhausted. "Maybe tomorrow? If we need to."

"Why don't we assess the situation when we get there?" Eliot suggests. "I'm here to help take the pressure off you. I can deal with it if necessary."

"Yeah, okay," Quentin sighs, leaning into Eliot as they step into the elevator. "I don't think I said, but - Thanks, El. For all of this."

"No problem," Eliot murmurs, and gives him a squeeze.

They don't talk much on the way to the house; Quentin is too emotionally exhausted, and he supposes that Eliot picks up on that. Quentin's grateful that Eliot doesn't try to fill the silence with inane chatter; it lets him doze off in the car, making the ride pass more quickly than it otherwise would have. His dad's house is about twenty minutes from the hospital, situated in a quiet suburb. Quentin takes care of paying the driver while Eliot grabs their things, and then he leads the way up the short walk, unlocking the door with the key on his ring. "Bedrooms are all on the second floor," he says, waving a hand towards the staircase. "You can set our shit down by the stairs for now, I guess? Um, bathroom's down the hall on the left, you can see the living room, and the kitchen is right through here."

Eliot sets the bags down where Quentin points to and turns to look at him. "Kitchen first?"

Quentin opens his mouth to reply, flushing when his stomach growls. "Yeah, kitchen first. That sandwich didn't last very long."

"At least we have an appetite now," Eliot says with a smile. "After you."

Quentin shakes his head, smiling, as he does so. A quick inventory of the kitchen shows they've got enough food for something easy and quick tonight, but not enough for more than a few days. "He was probably gonna go shopping tomorrow," Quentin says, closing the freezer door. "But there's some stuff for tacos in the fridge, it looks like."

"All right," Eliot says. "Why don't I cook while you get us settled in, and then we can make a list?"

"Yeah, okay," Quentin agrees, turning back to the entryway. "Kitchen's pretty standard, let me know if you need anything."

"I will," Eliot says, and starts rolling his sleeves up.

* * *

By the time Quentin comes back downstairs Eliot has well and truly made himself at home in the kitchen. Dinner is a quiet affair, both men lost in their own thoughts, and Quentin decides to call it a night soon after. Eliot stays up for a little while, washing the dishes and putting them away, and then wanders through the ground floor of the house, absently straightening up the place, putting to rights the little things that Ted understandably overlooked when he was rushed to hospital.

He heads to bed once he runs out of things to do that aren't weird in a house he doesn't belong in. The light is still on under what he assumes is Quentin's door, but while he hesitates for a moment, torn, Eliot only calls a soft goodnight as he passes it. Quentin doesn't answer.

It's a modest house, and it only has the one guest room, which means it's easy to find. Quentin has also left the door open with Eliot's bag on the queen-size bed, just to be extra helpful. It makes him smile. He takes his time washing up in the family bathroom, just in case Quentin decides to call out to him, but he doesn't. Eliot doesn't actually hear so much as a peep from him until he's in bed with the light off and half on his way to sleep. The creak of the floorboards on the landing is unfamiliar to Eliot and startles him to full wakefulness before Quentin so much as knocks on his door, so by the time he does Eliot is already sitting up in bed and reaching for the bedside lamp.

"Yeah?" he calls softly.

Quentin pushes the door open slowly; he looks rumpled, like he's spent the time since coming upstairs trying - and failing - to go to sleep. "Hey," he says quietly, stepping inside. He's got his arms crossed over his chest, and he doesn't look at Eliot for longer than a moment at a time. "I, um. I was having trouble sleeping. Couldn't stop my brain. I was wondering if - " He pauses, takes a deep breath. "I was... hoping I could sleep with you? Just... not be alone."

"Of course," Eliot says, and throws the covers back on the unoccupied side of the bed. "Come on."

Quentin doesn't waste any time sliding into the bed, pulling the covers back over him. "Thanks," he sighs, his arm brushing Eliot's under the covers. 

Eliot reaches out, a little clumsy with sleep, to pat the back of his hand. "Do you want to talk about it?" he asks.

Quentin lets out a long, slow breath. "Just - I'm not used to being here without Dad. And knowing _why_ he's not here, where he actually is... I just started worrying."

Eliot takes his hand properly at that and gives it a gentle squeeze. "You're going to start getting results through tomorrow, right?" he asks. "We'll know more then. And in the meantime your dad wouldn't want you worrying yourself sick."

"I know," Quentin sighs, settling more comfortably onto the bed. "But, you know. Anxiety isn't always defeated with logic."

"So what can we do to get your head to quiet down?" Eliot asks.

"This is helping," Quentin says, squeezing Eliot's hand. "Just... knowing I'm not actually alone, that I'm not doing this all by myself."

"You're not," Eliot assures him. "I meant what I said last semester."

Quentin smiles, squeezing Eliot's hand again. "Thanks," he murmurs. "I really do appreciate all of this, you know."

"It's no problem," Eliot says, smiling through the dark. "I've been told that I'm good in a crisis. When it's not my own, anyway."

"Well, whenever you have a crisis, that's what you've got me and Margo for," Quentin says, shifting closer to Eliot. "You take care of us, we take care of you."

Eliot shifts too, curving his body to better accommodate Quentin's. "Thanks," he says, whispers really. "I know I haven't said much about... what you did for me, after Mike. But thank you."

"What are friends for?" Quentin asks, his smile clear in the soft tone of his voice. "I'd do it again - except I'd definitely hex Mike this time around."

Eliot chuckles. "Me too."

* * *

They take their time getting going the next morning. Quentin managed to sleep eventually, but it wasn't particularly restful, and they're both still tired. Visiting hours don't start at the hospital until twelve, but they're in no rush. Eventually Eliot encourages Quentin into the shower and makes him a simple breakfast of toast and scrambled eggs, and then sits with him at the kitchen table while they put together a grocery list. "Your dad has a car, right?" Eliot asks, tapping his pencil against the magnetic notepad he pulled down off the refrigerator before they started. He doesn't think it's ever been used, but there's a first time for everything. "Think he'd mind if I borrowed it?"

Quentin considers that for a moment before shrugging. "Just don't act stupid with it, and I doubt he'll care," he decides.

Eliot doesn't dignify that with a verbal response, but he does roll his eyes. "Then why don't I drive you to the hospital and then go to the store?" he suggests.

Quentin hesitates for a moment, clearly thinking, before he nods. "Okay. Keep your phone on, though? Just in case."

Eliot gives him a gentle, indulgent smile. "Obviously."

* * *

Eliot is just loading the groceries into the back of Quentin's dad's car when his phone goes off. Quentin is calling him to say that they got some of Ted's test results back, and while they're still waiting for the rest the ones they do have are positive enough that he's being released, and can Eliot please come pick them up? So Eliot drives the now-familiar route back to the hospital and waits out front while Quentin escorts his father from the building.

Ted Coldwater is on first impressions an older, more surly-looking version of Quentin - but the surly part could have something to do with the fact that he's clearly uncomfortable being made to sit in the passenger seat of his own car. Eliot gives him a winning smile and signals to pull away from the curb outside the hospital's main entrance. "I wasn't sure you'd feel up to driving just yet," he admits as he executes a smooth U-turn and heads towards the main road. "But you're in safe hands with me, I swear."

"Hm." Ted eyes Eliot critically, ignoring Quentin's pointed murmur from the backseat. "And you're... Eliot, right?"

"Yes," Eliot says. "It's nice to meet you, Mr Coldwater, even with the circumstances."

"Hmph. The circumstances _could_ be a lot better," Ted grumbles. "But it's nice to finally meet the guy Q wouldn't shut up about over his break."

" _Dad!_ "

Eliot's charming 'parents love me' smile melts into something much more like a smirk. "Oh, _really?_ "

"Yes, really," Ted says, tossing Quentin a grin that only grows wider when Quentin glares at him. "It was nothing but 'Eliot this,' and 'Eliot that,' and 'Margo and Eliot did this...'"

"We are fascinating people," Eliot allows. He drums his fingers on the steering wheel while he waits for a light to change, and flashes Quentin a grin in the rearview mirror. "Don't worry, Q, I'm sure a lot of people spent their break talking about us."

"No wonder both of your heads are so fat," Quentin retorts, but he's grinning. "It's a wonder you can fit in the Cottage at all."

Eliot sticks his tongue out at him. "I have a healthy ego," he says.

"'Healthy,' sure," Quentin snorts, rolling his eyes; his smile is fond, however, soft around the edges in a way that Eliot recognizes. 

The two of them bicker good-naturedly the rest of the drive back to the house, only stopping when Ted demands a truce so that Quentin can help him out of the car. Ted gets himself up the front steps and into the living room while Quentin and Eliot bring in the groceries, and he watches them put the groceries away, peering over the back of the couch. "I hope Curly Q gave you his credit card to pay for those," he says, frowning. "Otherwise you'll have to let me know how much it was so I can pay you back."

Quentin rolls his eyes, putting the milk into the fridge. "Of course I gave him my card, Dad. Stop worrying, and start thinking about what you want for dinner."

Ted grumbles wordlessly before shifting his attention to Eliot. "I hope you're cooking, otherwise I might have to go back to the hospital for accidental poisoning."

"You mix up salt and sugar _one_ time," Quentin complains. 

"You put them _in the wrong containers,_ Q," Ted retorts. "And that's not including the turmeric incident."

"You're in safe hands, Mr Coldwater," Eliot interrupts, laughing. "I know exactly how disastrous Quentin can be in the kitchen."

"Okay, you know what? Fuck both of you," Quentin sniffs, turning his nose up as he grabs a bag with several frozen vegetables in it. "I'm going to take these out to the garage freezer."

Ted laughs as he watches Quentin stalk off, his tone exceptionally fond as he says, "Still dramatic, huh? Guess I shouldn't be surprised that college didn't change that." He eyes Eliot for a moment, smile shifting into a smirk before adding, "Or maybe the people in this 'Cottage' just encourage him to be a dramatic little shit."

"Definitely that last one," Eliot says, smiling. "We love him for who he is."

" _All_ of who he is?" Ted checks, eyebrow raised. 

Eliot frowns. "Of course," he says. "If you're referring to his depression, we're aware and we're learning how to help him."

Ted's expression relaxes. "Good," he says, nodding. "He hasn't had a lot of friends who've done that for him."

"Julia," Eliot says. "Is that it?"

Ted sighs. "Q used to be close with her ex, James, too. He was worse than Julia, but. I love the girl, but she's not always patient enough, and she can get... absorbed in her own life, and forget other people have troubles, too."

"We all have pasts, and baggage," Eliot offers. "But that just means we know how important it is to have a mutually-beneficial support network. Quentin taught us that."

Ted looks satisfied with that. "Good," he hums, just as Quentin comes back through the door to the garage. 

Quentin pauses, taking in the look on his dad's face, and then turns to Eliot, eyebrow raised. "Have you two been gossiping?"

"Of course not," Eliot says, and shares a grin with Ted. "Are you both hungry? I could make us an early dinner."

Quentin eyes them suspiciously before he relaxes. "I could eat," he says. "Dad?"

"I'm goddamn starving," Ted announces. 

Eliot laughs. "All right," he says. "Sit tight, gentlemen, and let me work my magic."

He leaves them to chat in the living room and proceeds to take over the kitchen once more. Quentin told him this morning that Ted isn't very appreciative of fancy food, which suits Eliot just fine. He's an excellent cook, but he's a crowd-pleaser above all else.

It's easy to throw together a simple, healthy meal, just spinach and onion and garlic and herbs in a mixture of chopped tomatoes and vegetable stock, with some red lentils mixed in to thicken it. After a minute of rummaging around the cupboards to find where Quentin put some of the other groceries, he breaks up half a pack of lasagne sheets and adds them to the pot. He simmers everything for fifteen minutes while he slices and butters the fresh bread he picked up at the store, losing himself to the familiar rhythm of cooking easy, hearty food. He could live his life like this, he thinks abstractly, and be perfectly content - before he squashes the thought, irritated. That's ridiculous. He's meant for better things than being someone's homebody.

The little egg timer he found tucked away behind the unused bread bin goes off, and he turns back to the stove to shut off the heat and grab a ladle. "It's ready!" he calls.

It only takes a minute or two for Quentin and Ted to appear. Ted makes an appreciative noise as he settles at the dinner table. "That smells amazing," he says, eyes sharp as he watches the soup be ladled out. "What is it?"

"Lasagne soup?" Eliot hedges with a smile. "Just lentils and lasagne sheets and tomato goo. It's vegan, I don't know if that matters."

"Long as it tastes good," Ted says cheerfully. "I can deal with the occasional vegan meal."

"Dad's a huge carnivore," Quentin says, smirking as he takes two bowls from Eliot. "You should see the amount we spend every year on meat for the Fourth of July barbecue."

"Well, now I know where Quentin's appreciation of a good steak comes from," Eliot says. He grabs his own bowl and joins Quentin and his dad at the table.

They settle down to eat, Ted praising Eliot’s soup after the very first spoonful. “This is _really_ good,” he says, taking another spoonful. “Is it your own recipe?”

"I think I found it online years ago when I was a broke undergrad student," Eliot admits. "I've probably changed some things about it since then, but it's good comfort food, and it's relatively cheap, so. It works."

"Where'd you study for undergrad?" Ted asks, intrigued.

"I went to SUNY Purchase," Eliot tells him. "Majored in The Most Liberal Arts. It was an experience."

"An experience involving lots of parties, I bet," Quentin snorts, reaching out to knock his foot gently into Eliot's ankle under the table. 

Eliot inclines his head in agreement. "I was a theatre kid," he says. "We always threw the best parties."

"And do you _still_ throw the best parties?" Ted asks. "Or are you no longer a theater kid?"

Eliot exchanges a look with Quentin. "I guess you could say I'm still a theatre kid," he says. "I don't know how much I can say about the parties, though. I don't want you to think I'm a bad influence."

Ted laughs. "Oh, really? And what kind of bad influence might you hypothetically be on my introverted son who needs to get his nose out of a certain set of books more often?"

"Well, when you put it like that, maybe I'm not such a bad influence after all."

There's a definite gleam to Ted's eye when he asks, "Oh, then you're a good influence?"

Eliot gets the distinct feeling he's digging himself a hole. "Mr Coldwater, I try to encourage people to enjoy life," he says carefully.

Ted waves a hand. "Don't bother calling me 'Mr Coldwater,' Ted is fine. How'd you get into that, then, encouraging people to 'enjoy life'?" He completes the sentence with air quotes, and his smile is wry. "Either your parents were hippies or they were strict bastards, in my experience, when someone has a goal like that in life."

Eliot grimaces. "Let's just say I didn't learn to enjoy it myself until relatively recently," he says.

Ted seems to get what Eliot isn't saying, because he steers the conversation into safer territory after that. 

* * *

That night, after the dishes have been washed and they passed a couple relatively relaxed hours browsing Netflix before going to bed, Quentin heads over to Eliot's room. His dad is in the bathroom, 'indulging in a proper hot shower,' so Quentin doesn't hesitate to knock on Eliot's door, pushing it open when Eliot calls out a greeting. "Hey," he says, giving Eliot a smile. "I think that went well, overall? Sorry if Dad got a little pushy there."

Eliot is in the middle of unbuttoning his shirt, and he turns to give Quentin a gentle smile. "It's fine," he says. "He's just making sure I'm not a shitty person for you to be around."

Quentin rolls his eyes, moving further into the room so he can sit on the edge of the bed. "Yeah, no. I know my dad, and that was _not_ the 'let's make sure you're a good influence on my kid' voice. He fucking _grilled_ James when he and Julia started dating in high school. First time I ever saw James absolutely panic."

"Then what was it?" Eliot asks.

Quentin's smile turns a bit rueful. "That was his 'I couldn't get anything substantial from Quentin so I'll ask you directly about yourself,' voice. He did it to my first boyfriend. That relationship only lasted about a week."

Eliot's eyebrows shoot up into his hairline. "Your _boyfriend?_ " he repeats.

Quentin shakes his head, but he's smiling. "Yeah. I was, um. Thirteen? So, y'know, peak awkward stage. Not that I ever grew out of that. And like, right after it ended, I decided I had a crush on Jules, then that I was in love with her."

"Right," Eliot says slowly. He finishes taking off his shirt and folds it neatly before placing it on top of his designated laundry pile. It leaves him standing there in his undershirt and pants. "What about you? How are you feeling?"

Quentin considers that for a moment. "I'm glad he's home," he says, hands folded in his lap. "And the doctors have a plan to figure out what happened, to try to keep it from happening again. But I'm still kinda worried, you know?"

Eliot nods. "That's understandable," he says. "There's still a lot of uncertainty. But you'll have the results soon. Did they say how long it would take?"

"A couple days," Quentin sighs. "They had to send some of the results off to a specialist, I think a cardiologist? They're not expecting to hear back from her until after the weekend."

"Okay," Eliot says. He sits down on the bed, and pats the space next to him. "I'm not asking this because I want a specific answer, but now that you've got him home and he's not in any immediate trouble, do you want me to leave?"

Quentin doesn't answer for a moment as he scoots closer to Eliot, settling more comfortably on the bed. "I... No," he admits. "I want you to stay, but. I don't know how long I’ll be staying, so."

"That's not a problem," Eliot assures him. "I can stay for as long as you want me to. But I don't want to intrude on your time with your dad, if you find that you don't need me around."

"You're not _intruding,_ " Quentin says. "And I... I might not _need_ you here, but I - I want you here."

Eliot smiles. "Then I'm here," he says.

Quentin's smile softens. "Good."

* * *

The next day is largely uneventful; the three of them pass it in a surprisingly easy comfort. Eliot is still a little formal around Ted at first, but he's better, more relaxed, by the time they finish dinner, another wonderful concoction of Eliot's. Ted excuses himself to bed early that night, reassuring Quentin that he's still just a little drained from all the drama the other day, that an early night is just what he needs to get back on his feet properly. 

Quentin knows his dad would never _lie_ to him, especially not about something this important, but - But he can't help worrying, and when his brain won't _fucking_ shut up again, won't let him sleep... Well, Quentin maybe acts before he thinks, and ends up at Eliot's door, knocking quietly. He's not sure if he's hoping Eliot will hear him or not; both prospects are... a little terrifying, in their own way. 

But Eliot's door opens a moment later. He's barefoot, in silk sleep pants and a white undershirt, his hair wild and curly. There are creases beneath his eyes that suggest that if he wasn't already asleep, he wasn't far off, but he just smiles tiredly at Quentin and steps back to let him in. "Can't sleep?" he asks, closing the door softly.

Quentin blows out a breath, shakes his head. "No. My brain again. Can I - " He takes another deep breath before pushing on. "Can I stay here again?"

"Of course," Eliot says, and pads back over to the bed. "Do you want to talk, or just sleep?"

"Sleep, please," Quentin says, plaintive. "I just - need to not be alone right now."

"That's fine," Eliot says. He gets back under the covers and reaches over for the bedside lamp. The sheets are still warm beneath him when Quentin climbs into bed on the other side. Eliot gives him a smile over his shoulder. "Okay?"

Quentin doesn't bother trying to hide how much more at ease he already feels. "Yeah," he murmurs, then hesitates. He licks his lips and shifts closer, until he's pressed against Eliot, not pressing himself fully against Eliot, not tangling their feet together the way he wants to so desperately, not yet. Instead, he makes himself swallow, ask in a quiet voice that drifts no further than the sheets, "Can I - Fuck, there's no non-awkward way to say it, but can we cuddle? I just... I want to hold something and be held."

Eliot chuckles and switches the light off. There's a moment of absolute stillness and almost absolute darkness, ruined only by the faint glow of a distant street lamp through the curtains - and then Eliot shifts beside him, and an arm settles over Quentin's waist. "Come here," he murmurs.

Quentin goes easily, readily - almost _eagerly,_ but he's really trying to work on that whole 'needy' thing. "Thanks," he sighs, settling against Eliot and finally _truly_ relaxing. 

Eliot sighs, and Quentin feels it like a brush of lips against the top of his head. "Goodnight, Q."

Quentin falls asleep before he can wish Eliot the same. 

* * *

He wakes early the next morning, early enough that there's light outside Eliot's window but not bright enough to truly make its way into the room. Quentin doesn't want to move, to leave the warmth beneath the blankets or the safety of Eliot's arms, but... Well. He doesn't want to _hide_ how much he cares for Eliot, but he also doesn't want to put Eliot in any uncomfortable position by giving his dad any more reason to tease them. So, with great reluctance, Quentin carefully worms his way out of Eliot's arms, and steps oh-so-lightly to the door, opening and closing it gently. 

Of course, all his effort nearly goes to waste when his dad _clears his throat_ from his door not six feet down the hall, and Quentin nearly shrieks like a startled cat. He manages to catch it, turn the noise into a strangled squeak instead, and whirls to face his father, heart hammering. " _What_ are you doing up so early?" he hisses, determinedly ignoring the flush he can feel on his face. 

"Well, Curly Q, as you get older you'll find that your bladder doesn't like you as much as it does right now," Ted says. He gives Quentin a pointed look. "I know you haven't lived here for a while, but I do remember which room's yours."

The flush burns hotter, and Quentin steps away from Eliot's door, moving closer to his dad. "I couldn't sleep," he says, tries desperately to keep his tone even and quiet. "Nothing - happened."

"You're a grown man, Quentin, I don't care if it did," Ted says seriously. "I only care that you're safe, and happy."

Quentin sighs, leaning against the wall. "I'm happy," he assures his father. "But El and I are just friends, I swear."

Ted doesn't look convinced, but he lets it drop. "Well, whatever he is, he's good to you," he says.

Quentin knows his smile is probably inordinately fond as he replies, "Yeah, he is. I'm really glad I met him; he's probably at least half the reason I survived last semester."

Ted frowns. "What about Julia?" he asks. "I'm surprised I haven't seen her around here, actually."

Quentin sighs. "Julia's been... busy," he admits. "With her classes, and - and new relationship drama. All three of them insist it's nothing more than hooking up, but." He shrugs one shoulder, the corner of his mouth quirking. "There's a betting pool on how long it'll take them to all end up together."

"Jesus," Ted says. "Well, if Julia's not looking out for you, I'm glad Eliot is. Just make sure he knows I don't expect him to stick around or help out like he has been. I'm grateful, but I don't want him to feel like he has to be here."

"Yeah, we had that conversation already," Quentin says, smiling. "He knows he doesn't _have_ to stay."

Ted grins. "Good," he says. "He's a fucking great cook, and I like the way he is with you."

Quentin blinks. "What?"

"I don't know exactly," Ted admits. "It's just obvious he cares. I mean, he's here, isn't he?"

The smile returns, and Quentin _knows_ it's soft and damn near sappy, but he can't help it. "Yeah, he does care. Tries to pretend he doesn't sometimes, but that's a lie." He glances down the hallway, to Eliot's closed door, and then back to Ted. "I'm gonna go downstairs and get some breakfast. You coming, or going back to sleep?"

"I could eat," Ted decides. "I think I'm still making up for all the crap they fed me in the hospital."

Quentin laughs. "Fair enough. Waffles?"

Ted grins. "Perfect."

* * *

The day passes just like the one before it, and Quentin is encouraged by the way his dad is acting more like himself. Even though that means that he's teasing Quentin quite a lot about Eliot, Quentin's still happy his dad feels good enough _to_ tease. 

He manages to sleep in his own bed that night, and the next day, they all sleep in a bit, as is the Coldwater Sunday Morning Tradition. Quentin helps Eliot make lunch as his dad showers, even though it's mostly just passing utensils and bowls that Eliot's already prepared. He's gone a little overboard, in Quentin's opinion, preparing a full roast - chicken, vegetables, even damn _Yorkshire puddings_ made from scratch - but at least they'll probably have leftovers. They chat while they work, and Quentin barely notices when the shower upstairs cuts off, too absorbed in the conversation. 

That absorption turns out to be his downfall; he turns too quickly to make a retort to some smart comment from Eliot, catches his elbow on the corner of the counter, and drops the - luckily empty - bowl in his hands, which cracks into several pieces upon impact with the kitchen floor. Quentin jumps back with a yelped, " _Fuck!_ "

"Shit, watch your feet," Eliot says, turning away from his dish of roast potatoes to send a wave of telekinesis towards the pieces of the shattered bowl, lifting them up off the floor. "Trash?"

Quentin inspects the pieces for a moment. "No, give 'em here. I think I can fix it, they're all solid pieces, no tiny shards."

"Okay." Eliot floats the pieces over to the nearest free counter top and sets them down gently.

Quentin takes a deep breath, and then holds his hands out, letting his magic stretch until it picks up the pieces of the bowl. "Guess it's a good thing I'm good with mending spells," he jokes. "Considering the amount of shit I drop."

"And you say you're not a Physical Kid," Eliot says, eyeing Quentin appreciatively.

Quentin rolls his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, quit leering and let me concentrate."

The sound of a throat being cleared in the doorway makes them both jump, and then Ted Coldwater is asking, "What the actual fuck is going on here?"

Quentin swears, fumbling the tut he's working through - but he catches himself and finishes it quickly. The newly-repaired bowl drops with a solid _clunk_ to the tabletop, and Quentin turns to give his father a nervous smile. "Um, this is - Not what it looks like?"

"Then what the hell is it, Q?" Ted asks. "Because that didn't look like one of your usual magic tricks."

"It, well. Um." Every word he's ever known vanishes from his mind, and Quentin looks at Eliot, a little desperately. 

He's not the only one at a loss. Eliot might have some experience with coming out, but not like this. "Okay," he says, stepping forward. "Actually, that looked a lot like Quentin's usual magic tricks - except that you haven't seen them before. We're not talking smoke and mirrors here; we're talking real magic."

"Real magic," Ted repeats, somewhat dubiously. "Right."

Eliot sighs, and returns his attention to the bowl. It rises gently into the air and floats over to Ted, where it begins to rotate slowly in front of him. "Real magic," he says again.

Ted goes white as a sheet. "What."

" _Put that down,_ " Quentin hisses at Eliot, darting forward to hover by his worryingly-pale father. "Dad, maybe you should sit down? We'll explain, but you look like half a second away from passing out."

Ted lets Quentin lead him over to sit at the kitchen table while Eliot settles the bowl back on the worktop. "Q, I think I need an explanation," he says, somewhat shakily. "Something that makes sense, please."

Quentin huffs something just shy of a true laugh. "Okay. Um. So, I _have_ been at grad school, it's just. The day I went for my interview, for Yale? The interviewer was dead - diabetic and he ate too many oreos, apparently - but he was a Magician, and wasn't just going to interview me for Yale. He was also evaluating me and Julia for magic. It's - a long story. But we ended up taking an entrance exam for Brakebills, grad school for Magicians, and we got in."

"So you're a magician," Ted says faintly. "Right. You going to pull a rabbit out of a hat?"

"Actually, conjuring animals isn't taught until second year," Eliot offers. "I could probably do it, but I haven't exactly been going to class lately. I'd run the risk of conjuring, like, half a rabbit."

" _What_."

Quentin ignores Eliot for a moment. "No, it's not like. Stage magic. It's really magic - we're Magicians, with a capital 'm.' It's... kinda complicated, but things like telekinesis, telepathy, shape-shifting, spells of pretty much every kind - it's real."

"It's real," Ted repeats. He's starting to get some colour back, but he loses it when he glances cautiously over at the bowl Quentin broke. "And you just used real magic to fix that."

Quentin winces. "Yeah. It's probably the spell I'm best at? For obvious reasons."

"You are very clumsy," Ted says, almost automatically. He takes a breath. "So. You're both Magicians, and you go to magic school. Were you ever going to tell me?"

Eliot glances at Quentin. "We're not really supposed to reveal magic to non-magical people."

Quentin's own look is more than a little worried. "We thought you were still upstairs," he says. "But, yeah. There's. Probably like a whole process we're supposed to go through to bring someone in on the secret? But mostly we're just. Supposed to keep it a secret."

Ted frowns at them. "Are you going to get into trouble?"

"Not if we don't tell anyone," Eliot says quickly.

"And not if _you_ don't tell anyone," Quentin adds. "If we just. Keep it quiet, it should be fine."

"Right," Ted says. He takes a moment to process this. "Does it... You know, run in families? Is your mom..?"

Quentin shakes his head. "It can, but it's just as likely to pop up out of nowhere. Like a recessive gene. There's a couple people I know whose families are mostly Magicians? But it's not common."

"So it's just you?" Ted asks.

"As far as I know, from our family," Quentin confirms. "I mean, maybe further back there was someone? But not living anymore."

"What about you?" Ted asks, his gaze finding Eliot again.

Eliot smiles. "Just me," he says. "My parents are far too Catholic to be involved in anything resembling _witchcraft_."

"Assholes," Quentin mutters reflexively. He hesitates, biting his lip, and watching his dad carefully. "You okay?"

Ted doesn't answer right away. "I think so," he says. "Can you show me again?"

Quentin glances at Eliot. "You're better at telekinesis than me; I'd probably drop the bowl again."

"No, Q," Ted interrupts. "You're a _Magician_. Show me something you can do."

Quentin hesitates, then sits back in his chair with a sigh. "Okay. Um. Here. Let me - " He gets up, disappears down the hall for a couple of minutes, and then returns, a broken model plane in his hands. He sets the pieces down on the kitchen table as carefully as he can. "Remember this?"

"Yeah," Ted says. "You broke it when you were a kid."

"Yeah," Quentin says, giving Ted a slight smile as he settles into the chair again. "Okay." He takes a deep breath, lays the pieces of the model plane on the table, and raises his hands to start working through the spell to put the plane back in its 'proper' form. 

Ted lets out a slow breath as the mended plane settles on the table before him. "Shit," he says. "You really are magic."

Quentin laughs, unable to resist giving his father jazz hands. "Ta-da?"

"You always knew it," Ted says, thoughtful. "You always knew you were different. It suits you, Q. I'm happy for you."

Quentin's smile grows. "Thanks, Dad."

Eliot stands up from the table. "I'll give you guys a minute," he says. "The potatoes are just about ready to go in, so I'll just, yeah." He waves his hands, and the oven door opens as the dish holding the potatoes lifts itself off the counter and floats itself into the oven. Eliot slips from the room just as the oven door closes again with a soft _snick_.

Ted watches him go with a frown. "Is he okay?"

Quentin bites his lip. "His parents were... awful. His whole family, really, when he was growing up," he says quietly. "I - He's not used to any. Genuine affection?"

Ted's frown deepens. "He hands it out readily enough," he says. "I got the impression that his parents aren't great, but he's so..."

Quentin smiles, a little sadly. "I know. But... He basically rebuilt himself, when he finally got out of that shithole. There's not a lot of people he's genuine with."

"But you're one of them," Ted says.

"Yeah," Quentin agrees. "Somehow."

"Well, good," Ted says, nodding decisively. "You should bring him around here more often, when all of this is dealt with."

Quentin squints at Ted. "Are you trying to matchmake? Because that's exactly what you said to James and Julia."

That gets a laugh out of Ted. "You're old enough now that you shouldn't need your dad to matchmake for you, Curly Q," he says. "No, I just... He looks like he could use some time around a real family, you know?"

Quentin's smile softens. "Yeah, I know."

Ted rolls his eyes, his expression fond. "Go after him," he says. "My son. A fucking Magician."

Quentin laughs, pushing himself to his feet. He pauses only long enough to give his dad a hug before he follows Eliot out of the kitchen. 

He finds Eliot in his room, sitting on his bed and looking at his phone. He looks up when he hears Quentin approaching and offers him a soft smile. "You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm good," Quentin says, returning Eliot's smile. "What about you? You seemed kind of... tense, when you left."

Eliot shakes his head. "I just wanted to give you two some time alone."

Quentin hums, moving closer until he can settle onto the bed next to Eliot. "Thanks," he says, leaning in to bump his shoulder against Eliot's. "But you don't have to. Actually - Dad said that I better bring you around sometime there _isn't_ a medical emergency. He likes you."

"Really?" Eliot asks, surprised. "Why?"

Quentin grins. "He said he likes the way you are with me. And he thinks you could benefit from being around a 'real family' more often."

Eliot's eyes widen. "What did you tell him?"

"Just that things were rough for you, growing up - he said he'd already figured your parents were assholes," Quentin says. "I didn't say anything more specific, and he didn't ask."

"Do you think he will?"

"No," Quentin says confidently. "He won't. He wouldn't judge, if you ever wanted to talk to him, but he doesn't pry."

"Hmm." Eliot thinks about that, and nods. "If he's not sick of me by the time this week is over, sure. I'd like to be around more."

Quentin smiles, soft and pleased. "Good. I - I'd like to have you around more, too. Not just because we live in the same house."

Eliot laughs and bumps his shoulder against Quentin's. "It's okay, Coldwater," he says. "We all know you're obsessed with me."

* * *

Sunday dinner is pulled off with all of Eliot's usual flair, and it's perfect. Ted raves about his cooking, and insists that he's welcome anytime as long as he's happy to feed them. Quentin tries to rein him in, but Eliot promises that he enjoys cooking, especially for someone so appreciative, and that's that.

The rest of the evening passes in a slow, lazy kind of way. They're all in something of a food coma, especially after Eliot decides to whip up a decadent butterscotch cheesecake for dessert about an hour after they've eaten, helped along by magic of course. Ted turns in early again, gives Quentin a look that Eliot can't parse before he leaves them alone. Quentin stays up with him for a bit longer, mostly trying to settle his restless energy before he goes to bed. Eliot does his best to help, and when they head upstairs an hour or so later, they go their separate ways. Quentin doesn't come knocking in the middle of the night.

Monday morning begins with Eliot in the kitchen, plying two grumpy Coldwaters with coffee while he makes breakfast, a simple Eggs Benedict. They're just tucking in when the phone rings, and Ted shuffles out into the hall to answer it. They hear Ted mumble a general greeting, and then a distinct, "Oh, hi doctor." Eliot looks up at Quentin, his eyes wide.

Quentin doesn't see the look Eliot gives him; he's whipped around in his chair, staring intently down the hallway as Ted talks. He doesn't say anything particularly illuminating while he's on the phone, so as soon as he hangs up and returns to the kitchen, Quentin demands, "What did they say? What's going on?"

"The rest of my test results are back," Ted says, resuming his seat at the table. "I have an appointment tomorrow morning to go in and discuss them."

Quentin doesn't relax just yet. "Did they tell you if it was good or bad news? Did they tell you anything?"

Ted gives him a very patient look. "Q, they're not going to tell me anything over the phone."

Quentin scowls. "They could at least tell you if there's anything to worry about," he grumbles, turning back to his food. 

"It'll be fine," Eliot offers. "If it was something very urgent they'd have called him in straight away."

Ted smiles at him. "Exactly. No use worrying about it yet."

Quentin makes a face, clearly unhappy with this logic, but unable to argue against it. "Well, what time do you need to go in tomorrow?"

"Eleven," Ted says. "You really don't have to be there, though, Q. You and Eliot should go back to school."

Quentin exchanges a look with Eliot. "We can head back tomorrow," he says. "Another day won't make that much difference."

"That's fine with me," Eliot says. "I'm in no rush."

"Except that you said yesterday that you don't really go to classes," Ted says, his eyes narrowed. "I doubt they'd have given you special leave to come play nursemaid to someone else's father, even if you were a model student."

Eliot just shrugs. "I'll catch up."

Quentin kicks lightly at Eliot's ankle under the table. "You're gonna have a lot of catching up to do, and Margo's not gonna help you, you know. You might even have to suck it up and go to the library."

Eliot kicks him back. "Are you telling me to leave?" he asks.

Quentin kicks him again, grinning unrepentantly. "No, I'm telling you to brace yourself. I can't help you with second year classes, I'm still a first year, remember? Be glad you don't have a friend like Julia, honestly. She'd kidnap you and drag you to the library."

"I can handle it," Eliot promises - both to Quentin and his dad. "Really. Another day won't hurt."

* * *

Eliot offers to drive them to the hospital the next morning, and when Ted insists on driving himself he offers to stay at home. Ted actually laughs at him, though, and tells him that someone needs to be there to keep Quentin calm and catch him if he passes out. Quentin protests that he isn't a total mess nor an embarrassing expectant father, but Eliot just pats him on the arm with a fond expression. Ted laughs harder at that.

So they set off with plenty of time to spare, largely because Quentin is worried about being late. They do hit a little bit of traffic on the way, but they still arrive with enough time for Eliot to buy them all a coffee for them to nurse while they sit in the waiting room. Eliot is about halfway through his own coffee when a nurse appears at the front of the room and calls Ted's name. He looks over at Quentin.

"Do you want to go in with him?"

Quentin nods. "Yeah," he says, glancing at his dad. 

Eliot holds his hand out for Quentin's cup. "I'll be right here."

Quentin hands over his coffee, and walks with his dad over to the nurse. She takes Ted's weight, confirms his prescription list, and then leads them to a room where she takes his blood pressure. Once that's done, she leaves them alone, promising the doctor will be there soon - and for once, it's true. Ted and Quentin are in the room for barely two minutes before there's a knock on the door and it opens to reveal Dr Harlan. He gives Ted and Quentin both a genial smile as he heads for the sink, washing his hands. "Good morning, both of you," he says, grabbing a paper towel. "Mr Coldwater, how have you been?"

"I've been fine," Ted tells him. "A little tired, maybe. My son and his friend have been keeping an eye on me."

"Good," Dr Harlan hums. He settles at the computer, logging in and pulling up Ted's chart. "Now, we heard back from the cardiologist, as well as a few other in-house specialists, and we think we've figured out what caused your sudden collapse."

Ted visibly steels himself. "Is it bad news?"

"Only in that we will need to find another blood pressure medication for you, Mr Coldwater," Dr Harlan assures him. "The new medication we switched you to conflicted with your cholesterol medication."

"So that's why I collapsed?" Ted asks. "Because of my blood pressure medication?"

Dr Harlan nods. "Yes; your blood pressure dropped so quickly and so low that, frankly, it's a miracle you regained enough consciousness so quickly to call 911."

Quentin feels like he's been holding his breath since he got that call, and can finally let it go. "So if he gets a new medication, this shouldn't happen again?"

"Correct. It's why we had him go back to his old medication while we figured this out; that one isn't as effective, but we knew it didn't conflict with anything."

Ted accepts this easily enough. "Okay," he says. "So when can I start different medication?"

"Today," Dr Harlan answers with a smile. "We've already found a suitable alternative, and I've sent the script through to the pharmacy. I want you to be extra careful as you start this, however, and follow the directions _exactly._ The last thing any of us wants is a repeat of your collapse."

"Trust me," Ted says, gesturing to Quentin, "I think this one will kill me if I scare him like that again. Thank you, doctor."

Eliot is exactly where they left him when they come out, gazing anxiously at them in a way that suggests he's been staring at the door this whole time. He gets to his feet as they approach, and doesn't offer Quentin his cold coffee back. "What did they say?" he asks.

"It was a medication conflict," Quentin answers, his relief that it wasn't something so much _worse_ and more complicated clear in his voice. 

"Oh thank God," Eliot says. He reaches out, and Quentin thinks he's going to hug him, but he just grips his shoulder and squeezes once before letting go. "That's great, Ted. Are you ready to get out of here, or do you need to do anything else?"

"We can go," Ted says. "I need to pick up my prescription from the pharmacy, but other than that I'm done."

"Which means we need to start packing once we get home," Quentin sighs. "Gotta head back to campus."

"That's a good thing," Ted says, leading the way through the hospital. "You two need to get back to school. You've got better things to do than run around after me."

"No, I don't think so," Quentin argues, though his tone is light. "You're my dad, I want to make sure you're okay. Plus I sure as hell didn't get my 'little shit' genes from Mom."

"Well, now you know I'm okay," Ted points out, "so you can be a little shit from a distance."

"That's not what I mean, and you know it," Quentin retorts with a laugh. 

* * *

The two Coldwaters bicker almost the entire way home. Eliot wisely stays far out of it, letting them squabble as he drives them back to Ted's house. Once there, the conversation shifts to trying to remember where everything they brought with them ended up; Eliot and Quentin have only been at Ted's house for essentially a long weekend, yet Quentin's missing _half_ of the clothes he brought with him, and even Eliot has to track down a vest and a scarf. But, eventually, they get all of their belongings together, and Ted drives them to the station so they can head back to the New York City portal. Quentin and his dad share a long hug, but when Eliot holds his hand out to shake, Ted uses it to instead pull Eliot in for a brief hug. Eliot stiffens, expression clearly shocked, and Quentin hides a smile behind his hand as his dad lets go before Eliot gets truly uncomfortable.

They make their goodbyes just as the train pulls up, and Quentin darts in for another hug before joining Eliot on the train. They settle in for a comfortable, quiet ride and walk back to campus, neither of them feeling the need to fill the air with chatter. Quentin tenses as they move through the city, mostly from the sheer number of people pressing in around him - but as soon as they pass through the portal, he relaxes again, returning Eliot's knowing look with a sheepish smile as they step out of the woods on Brakebills' campus. The easy quiet persists until they reach the Physical Cottage; Eliot is the first one through the door, and Quentin is right behind him - only to be knocked back _out_ of the doorway and almost onto his ass by someone launching themselves at him.

Quentin splutters, doing his best to stay on his feet, and when he finally has his balance back, he looks down only to see his arms full of - "Jules?" he asks, confused. "Are you... Is everything okay?"

"I don't know, Q, is it?" Julia asks. "You texted me to tell me you'd left campus because your dad was sick, and then I barely hear from you all weekend until you text me today to tell me you're on your way back! And _Eliot_ was with you? No offence."

"Offence taken," Eliot says mildly.

Julia carries on as if he hasn't even spoken. "How is he? Is he okay? Are _you_ okay?"

"He's good," Quentin assures her. "It was some sort of med conflict. The doctors sorted it out, he's going to be fine."

"And what about you?" Julia presses. "Are you okay? Have you been looking after yourself?"

"I'm okay," Quentin says with a smile. "Eliot was a big help this weekend."

Julia pulls back then, to fix Eliot with a somewhat disbelieving look. "Really."

Eliot raises an eyebrow. "I did my best."

Quentin gives Julia a pointed look. "He helped a lot," he insists. "Besides, you were busy, and I had to leave right away."

"And you think I wouldn't have dropped everything?" Julia demands. "It's your dad, Q."

"He didn't want you to have to make that call," Eliot offers. "I wasn't busy, and I was happy to help."

"I don't care what you think he wanted," Julia snaps.

"Hey," Quentin cuts in, frowning. "He's right. I knew you were busy, and I didn't know how long I'd be gone. I didn't want to pull you away from campus."

Julia looks downright betrayed. "Well, I'm going to be here for you, now," she says. "Have you eaten today?"

"Just breakfast," Quentin admits. 

Vindicated, Julia shoots Eliot a sour look and grabs Quentin's hand. "Come on then."

Quentin rolls his eyes. "It's only two o'clock, and we had a late breakfast, Jules," he says, giving Eliot an apologetic look as Julia hauls him past. "It's not like I was _starved_ the whole weekend."

"If I need to teach you the importance of self-care again, I will," Julia snaps. "Jeez, Q."

" _One_ day of a couple of late meals doesn't mean I've forgotten how to take care of myself, or that I'm slipping," Quentin argues. 

"No offence, Q, but you can't really judge that for yourself."

"No, but Eliot and my dad can." Quentin rolls his eyes, dropping into the chair Julia all but pushes him into with a huff. "Honestly, Jules. I'm _fine,_ now that I know Dad's okay."

"Your dad's been distracted by other things, and Eliot doesn't know you as well as you think he does," Julia says, haughty, while she rummages in the fridge. "Do Physical kids never shop?"

"Most of the food is either left from parties, or the Natural kids bring it in," Quentin says with a shrug. "Only go shopping every few weeks."

"There's enough to make a sandwich at least," Julia says, emerging from the fridge with butter and a pack of sliced ham. "As long as you have bread. Really, Q, what have you been eating?"

"I told you, leftovers from the parties," Quentin says, bemused. "We get a surprising amount of variety. And then there's usually some groceries to supplement that, no one's had a chance to go grocery shopping yet, I'd guess."

"Well, it's not good enough," Julia says, savagely buttering bread. "You need vegetables."

"The Naturalist kids always have too many vegetables and are always giving them away," Quentin points out. "A lot of them end up here, not just the, uh. Hallucinogenic or otherwise-enhanced."

"Hmm," Julia says. She cuts the sandwich in half corner-to-corner and brings it over to him on a plate. "Eat that, and tell me everything about this weekend. Have you been taking your meds?"

Sighing in resignation, Quentin takes the sandwich and settles in for a long talk. 

* * *

Margo finds Eliot unpacking in his room barely five minutes after Julia dragged Quentin away into the kitchen. "Okay, El, what the _fuck_ was that?" she demands, shutting the door behind her. "Not just whatever the hell Wicker's problem is, but this whole fucking weekend. I had to run the party _alone,_ and keep Todd from trying to stick his nose in."

Eliot sighs and turns to look at her. "I'm sorry," he says. "But Q needed me. I had to go."

Margo crosses her arms over her chest. "Q needed you, so you just _drop everything_ and go?" she asks, eyebrow raised. "Really, El, he's cute, but he's not _that_ cute."

Eliot pulls a face. "It's not about how cute he is."

"Is it about how good he is in bed?" Margo asks, blunt. 

"Bambi," Eliot snaps. "Don't be ridiculous."

"Well, what the fuck is it?" Margo demands. "You don't just drop everything and run off to play house with _anyone,_ El."

"He's a friend," Eliot says, scowling. "He thought his dad was dying, and he didn't have anyone else to go with him. Of course I wasn't going to let him go by himself."

Margo glares at Eliot for another long moment before she sighs. "You barely texted me at all," she points out. "El, baby, that's not normal."

Eliot rolls his eyes and turns back to his unpacking. "Why is that a bad thing?" he asks. "You like him, too, don't act like you don't. He was struggling; I just wanted to help him out."

Margo sighs again. "And did you?"

"Yeah," Eliot says. "I took him to the hospital and made sure they were both eating properly, stuff like that."

Margo hums, coming closer to perch on the edge of Eliot's bed. "What's his dad like?"

Eliot glances at her out of the corner of his eye. "Nice," he says. "Pretty much your typical dad - which is to say, nothing like mine or yours. He... He loves Q, a lot. It was kind of weird to be around at first."

"Yeah?" Margo asks, a slight smirk curling her lips. "Did he like you?"

Eliot smiles. "I think so," he says. "He told Q to take me back to visit at some point."

Margo's smirk widens. "Making a good impression on the family, hm? Was that accidental or all part of your plan to actually seduce our little supernerd?"

Eliot huffs. "I am not seducing anyone."

That seems to take Margo aback, make her pause like nothing else has - and then she blinks. "Holy _fuck,_ you're serious," she realizes. "Well, shit, El, I - I didn't realize." She seems troubled by this revelation. 

Eliot's mouth twists. "Yeah," he says. "Well. If you're going to be a bitch about it, I will ask you to leave and I might rebuild my wards to keep you out of my room."

"Hey, you can't blame me for being surprised!" Margo protests. "You have to admit this isn't _normal_ for you."

"None of this is _normal_ ," Eliot says, resigned. " _Quentin_ isn't _normal_. He just fell into our lives and changed everything. At least that's how it feels for me. I fucking told him the truth about me, Bambi, you know what that means."

Margo's eyes widen. "I do, but - El, you make it sound like you're in _love_ with him."

Eliot turns to her, gives her a soft, secret smile. "What if I am?"

Margo's expression couldn't be more shocked if Eliot had turned around and slapped her. "You - _Really?_ "

Eliot shrugs. "Maybe," he says. "So what?"

Margo doesn't say anything for a moment, and then: "So, I'm happy for you. But just because you love him doesn't mean I won't hex his balls off if he ever hurts you."

Eliot shakes his head, still smiling. "It won't come to that. I'm not going to tell him."

Now Margo frowns. "Why not?"

"Come on, Bambi," Eliot says. "You know me."

Margo sighs. "I do," she concedes, rolling her eyes. "Well, even if you never find your balls, the threat stands." She pauses, clearly going back over what she just said, and then gives Eliot what, on anyone else, would be a vaguely-panicked look. "I mean - "

Eliot just laughs. "It's okay," he says. "Believe me; if I ever find my balls, you'll be the first to know."

Margo snorts indelicately. "You better tell me first, Waugh. Best friend code demands it."

Eliot rolls his eyes.

* * *

It's a few days later. Eliot has seen a bit of Quentin and more of Margo, but mostly because Julia has been keeping Quentin busy. Margo has actually volunteered to help him catch up with the class work he missed, both during his trip to New Jersey and before. Eliot has been trying his best, but it's frustrating, having Margo as his teacher. They've officially taken a break: Margo has gone shopping for the day, and Eliot is trying to go over some of her notes by himself.

Trying.

Mostly, that looks like spreading the notes around him on his bed, but ignoring them in favour of smoking a truly spectacular joint from the stash he got from Josh right before he left with Quentin. So he's kind of high when someone knocks on his door, even though it's only a little after twelve.

"Come in!" he calls, rolling onto his front so that he can see the door.

Quentin ducks inside, the door closing quickly behind him. "Oh, thank fuck, you're studying," he sighs. "Can I hide out in here? I can tell Jules we were studying together." He pauses, frowning, and glances down at the joint still in Eliot's hand. His lips quirk into a smile. "But that'll probably be a lie; you haven't read any of this, have you?"

Eliot takes a long drag and blows a smoke ring at Quentin in answer. "Of course not. What do you take me for?"

Quentin shakes his head, still smiling as he moves closer, until he can sit on the bed next to Eliot. "Obviously I mistook you for a Brakebills student," he teases. "Margo been helping you catch up?"

"Surprisingly, yes," Eliot says. He waves his free hand to collect all of Margo's notes and deposit them on his desk with a somewhat clumsy surge of telekinesis, and uses the other to offer Quentin the joint. "You want?"

"Sure," Quentin says, taking the joint from Eliot. He lifts it to his lips, taking a long drag without hesitation. He holds the smoke for a moment, and then exhales. " _Fuck,_ that's strong."

Eliot waggles his eyebrows. "Right? Hoberman knows his shit."

Quentin laughs, taking another drag and letting himself fall back until he's lying on the bed next to Eliot. He passes the joint back, looking up at the ceiling and smiling. "Yeah, he does. But I'm still not eating his experimental brownies."

"Oh, God," Eliot groans. "Your dad's brownies, with this weed..."

Quentin blinks, then slowly turns his head to look at Eliot. "I'm not sure if that's genius," he says slowly, "or completely sacrilegious."

"Both," Eliot says, nodding. "It's _perfect_."

"I am _not_ asking my _completely human_ father to make you _magic weed brownies._ "

"Then make them yourself," Eliot says. "They might not be as good, but we'll be too high to care."

Quentin considers that for a moment. "Maybe," he settles on. "Lemme see how bad the comedown is with this, first."

"Ah, you'll be fine," Eliot says, waving a hand. He takes the joint back and lifts it to his lips, considers Quentin thoughtfully while he takes a drag. "So why are you hiding in here?"

Quentin groans, throwing one arm dramatically over his eyes. " _Julia,_ " he sighs, like that explains everything. 

Eliot thinks it kind of does. "She was a bit... much," he says, "when we got back from your dad's."

"She hasn't let up," Quentin mutters. "Like she thinks just because my dad had a health scare like that and she wasn't there with me, I'm going to - to relapse, or something." He pauses, clearly thinking, then adds, "And I think she's... maybe a little jealous of you?"

Eliot laughs at that. "I mean, that's not entirely unusual, but what on earth for? Is it because I get more dick than she does?"

Quentin moves his arm only so he can shove at Eliot's shoulder, rolling his eyes as he does so. "No, you ass. Because you were there for me at my dad's, and I didn't even tell her anything was going on until that first night."

Eliot huffs and passes the joint back to Quentin. "You had good reasons for not telling her right away. Is she really mad that I went with you?"

Quentin doesn't answer while he pulls from the joint. "No," he finally says. "I don't think she's actually mad. I think - I think maybe it's a little bit of jealousy, and a bit of guilt. We haven't exactly talked a lot this semester. She's been so busy with that drama with Kady and Penny."

"Well, if she's smothering you, you need to tell her."

Quentin sighs. "I know," he says. "And I will. I just - This is the most time we've spent together since before Brakebills South, last semester. And before that, we spent basically _all_ of our time together."

"You miss her," Eliot says. "But you should be able to spend time with her without her being an overbearing mother hen. If Bambi was like this with me, I think I'd slap her."

Quentin snorts, smiling despite himself. "Yeah, I know. And I do miss her, but. She _is_ being a bit overbearing."

"Then say something," Eliot says. "But first, put that out and I'll roll us another one."

Laughing, Quentin complies. 

Their conversation drifts there, without any real rhyme or reason, as they work their way through the second joint. Halfway through, Quentin seems to become preoccupied with something, and when the joint is nearly gone, he finally spits it out. "Do you _really_ get more dick than Jules?"

Eliot almost chokes on his next drag, but he's laughing. "I don't know," he says lazily. "How much dick does she get?"

Quentin shrugs. "I know she fucked James, before we came to Brakebills. I walked in on them more than once because they never remembered when I was coming over, or to lock their door. And obviously she's hooked up with Penny."

"But no one else?" Eliot asks. He blows a smoke ring up towards the ceiling and offers the joint to Quentin. "Then, yeah, I get more dick than she does."

"Oh." Quentin's quiet for a moment. "Then - How... I mean, how don't more people know?"

Eliot cuts his gaze to him, one eyebrow quirked in puzzlement, before it clicks. "Oh, God, I don't fuck them," he says. "I don't even take my vest off, most of the time." He looks Quentin up and down, just one long sweep of his gaze, something almost hungry in his eyes when they find Quentin's again. "You're a guy. If someone offered to suck your brains out through your cock and not ask for anything in return, would you complain?"

Quentin swallows heavily, but he doesn't falter, doesn't break Eliot's gaze. "Depends. Could they back up a big claim like that?"

Eliot just smirks. "Oh yeah," he says. "I could."

"Well, I probably wouldn't complain, but." Quentin licks his lips, lets his own gaze drift down Eliot's body and back up before he says, "I like taking care of my partners. Making sure they have just as good of a time."

Eliot lets out a soft breath, like he wasn't expecting that. He looks away. "Well," he says lightly, "then you're not like most guys."

"Most guys are assholes," Quentin points out, wry. He sighs, shifts on the bed. "It's probably late enough that Jules has left; I think I can make it back to my room."

Eliot laughs again. "You don't seriously think she's been prowling the Cottage this whole time?"

"I think she's stubborn enough to try," Quentin laughs. "Probably used Kady as an excuse. Still, it _is_ late, and I need to go get something to eat before heading to bed."

Eliot rolls onto his back with a sigh, and stretches like a cat. "All right. Thanks for the company."

"No problem," Quentin says, smiling as he pushes himself upright - though he quickly turns, angling his lower body away from Eliot. He tries to cover the movement by standing quickly. "I'll talk to you later?"

Eliot's eyebrows almost disappear into his hairline. "Sure," he says. "You take care."

* * *

"Rise and shine!" Julia cries, bursting into Quentin's room at fuck-o'clock on Saturday morning. "Wakey wakey, Q, no staying in bed all day!"

Quentin spits something vile and anatomically impossible, flailing under the sheets until he can lift them up to glare at Julia. " _What?_ "

"Come on," Julia says, waving her hand. "Get up, we've got shit to do."

Quentin scowls at her. "'We'? There is no fucking _we_ at - " He checks the clock, and swears again. "At fucking goddamn _seven in the morning,_ Jules, what the _shit?_ "

"Listen," Julia says, stern, "I know you. If you're left to your own devices right now, you're going to spiral. Which means not getting out of bed, not showering, not eating. Well, not on my watch. So get up and take your fucking meds."

"You know perfectly well I've been eating and showering and getting out of bed," Quentin snaps, his patience growing thinner by the second. "One late morning isn't going to put me in jeopardy, Julia. Especially not when I was up late the night before!"

"Don't get mad at me," Julia says. "I'm just looking out for you. Trust me, staying in bed won't do you any good."

"Julia, I was up until _three o'clock,_ " Quentin groans, letting himself fall back to the bed. "It's more important for me to get a full rest than it is for me to be out of bed by a certain time."

"Looking after yourself is more important than anything, Quentin, and since you're not going to do it, I will."

Quentin's next words practically explode out of him. "You're not 'taking care of me,' you're fucking _smothering_ me!"

Julia reels back like she's been struck. "Excuse me? _Smothering_ you? I'm trying to look out for you!"

"You crossed that line a while back, Jules," Quentin says, scrubbing a hand over his face as he pushes himself upright. "Look. I appreciate that you care, alright? But the way you've been acting has been getting more and more annoying, and you haven't taken any of my hints to stop. For fuck's sake, I went to go hide out with Eliot the other day because you _wouldn't leave._ "

Julia narrows his eyes. "You went to _Eliot?_ " she demands. "Oh, that's great, Q. Run whining to your shiny new friend who knows fuck all about you to complain about the one person here who knows you, who actually has your back."

"You're not the only person who knows me anymore! I have new friends, and, yeah, Eliot knows me best, but even Margo and Alice know enough. You'd know that they're actually decent people if you were ever around when you weren't about to stick your face in Kady's cunt!"

Julia's jaw drops. She gapes at Quentin for a long moment, before something hard and defiant settles in her eyes. "Fuck you," she spits. "At least I'm _doing something_ , I'm focusing on school and working out my relationship and still trying to look out for you, by the way. What are you doing, Q? You've dropped me and your dad to hang out with the _cool kids_ and follow Eliot around like a little lost puppy, begging for his dick even though he's _never_ going to give it to you."

"I spent last weekend with Dad," Quentin snarls, "who hasn't heard _shit_ from you, by the way. And so what if I want to fuck El? I spent years wanting to fuck _you_ and still managing to be your friend. Which, speaking of, you didn't start 'trying to look out for me' until Eliot did, you were _so_ focused on school and Kady and Penny. I was _lucky_ if I got one non-school-or-them-related conversation with you a _week!_ "

"Because you didn't let me in!" Julia cries. "You were so busy with them that you didn't stop to go see your dad until he almost _died_ , and even then you had to drag your latest obsession with you! Did you think he was going to give you a pity fuck?"

Quentin opens his mouth to retort, furious - but then he closes it, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. When he looks at Julia again, his expression is flat, hard, and his tone matches. "Get out. Get out of my room before I say something I am really going to regret. I've already explained why Eliot came with me that weekend, I'm not going over it again now. So just - get out. Let me get some more sleep, calm down, and _I'll_ come find _you_ when I'm ready to see you again."

Julia scoffs, disgusted. "Take your fucking time," she snaps. "I don't want to see you, either." She slams out of his room a moment later, leaving only ringing silence in her wake.

Quentin isn't sure how long he sits there, head in his hands and focusing on taking deep, even breaths, before there's a tentative knock on his door. "Come in," he calls, sounding as exhausted as he feels. 

The last person he expects to see is Alice, already up and dressed at seven o'clock on a Saturday morning, peeking tentatively around his door. "Is everything okay?" she asks quietly. "I heard raised voices, and then I saw Julia storming out of here."

Quentin scrubs his hands over his face, sighing, before he admits, "I don't know. We just... had the biggest fight we've ever had."

Alice steps properly into the room and closes the door behind her. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Quentin heaves a sigh, letting his hands fall to his lap. "It's just - my brain is. Broken. And it's gotten really bad in the past, and Julia was my only friend then, so she helped me take care of myself. But she's been acting like - like I'm on the verge of being hospitalized again ever since my dad collapsed, but I'm _fine._ "

"Are you?" Alice asks, her gaze keen on Quentin's face.

Quentin offers her a tired smile. "I am, I promise. I mean, it's been an adjustment, going off of my meds, but - "

"You're off your meds?" Alice asks, frowning. "I'm surprised your doctor suggested that, with how much change you've experienced since you started here."

Quentin mentally curses himself. "It... wasn't my doctor's suggestion," he confesses, because he knows now that he's slipped, Alice won't let this go. "It was Dean Fogg's."

Alice raises a single, severe eyebrow. "What does that mean?"

"When he told me I was accepted here, he said... He said that I wouldn't need the meds, because the way I felt without them before was because I didn't know about magic, that my - mind and my body knew there was something missing."

"Okay," Alice says slowly. "But that's bullshit, Q."

Quentin looks up, meets Alice's gaze, his own a little desperate as he asks, "Is it? I mean, I've been _fine_ for pretty much the whole time I've been here. Winter got a little dicey, but I was careful."

"Have you been fine, though?" Alice asks. "I'm not-- I'm not trying to be an asshole, but you were kind of a mess last semester. This actually makes a lot of sense."

Quentin hesitates. "I mean, it's better than any other time I've been off my meds."

"I don't know," Alice says. "Obviously I didn't know you then. But Julia did, and she seems concerned now. Maybe it wasn't as bad as it has been in the past, but maybe things could still be better?"

"Julia's more concerned that I've been spending more time with Eliot, Margo, and you than with her," Quentin mutters, his bitterness evident. "But... maybe that's not all of it."

"You know you best, at the end of the day," Alice says, "but Fogg should never have told you to come off your meds. Just think about it."

Quentin takes in a deep breath, holds it for a moment, and then lets it go slowly. He gives Alice a small, slightly wobbly smile. "I will," he promises. He gestures towards her, asking, "What has you up so early?"

"Oh, I'm always up this early," Alice admits. "I hate lying in, it makes me feel weird." She smiles. "But I get the feeling you're the opposite. I'll let you go back to sleep."

Quentin laughs. "For the record, I'm only trying to sleep in so late today because I was up until three in the morning," he says. "But I appreciate it, Alice."

Alice smiles. "I'll see you later, Q."

* * *

Eliot doesn't see much of Quentin for the rest of the day. He's helping Margo with party preparations, and Quentin seems happy to stay in his room for the most part. He's fully prepared to barge in there and drag him down to the party, but he emerges just as things are starting to get interesting and goes straight to Alice's side. That's an interesting development that Eliot tries not to think about too hard, which is how he ends up busy for most of the night, throwing himself into tending bar and playing the excellent host with much more enthusiasm than he usually manages to muster.

But things start to wind down eventually, and when Eliot lets himself look for Quentin for the first time in over an hour he finds the crowd thinning, and Quentin by himself in the reading nook. He finishes up the margarita he's mixing for one of Josh's friends and then pours two glasses of the sangria he prepared earlier and slips out from behind the bar.

"You've been quiet this evening," he says, sinking into the seat beside Quentin and offering him one of the glasses. "Have you even had a drink yet?"

"No," Quentin admits, giving Eliot a sheepish look as he takes the proffered drink. "Sorry, I've been... preoccupied."

"Yeah, I noticed," Eliot says, careful to keep his tone light as he casts his gaze around the room. "Where did Alice go off to, anyway?"

"I'm not sure," Quentin confesses. "Lost track of her about an hour ago."

Eliot's eyebrows raise. "So it's not her you've been distracted by?"

Quentin sighs. "No. It's... Well, Julia."

"Ah." Eliot settles back against the cushions and takes a sip from his own glass. "I had noticed that she's conspicuously absent tonight. Did you talk to her?"

"Sort of?" Quentin hedges. "If a shouting match at seven in the morning counts."

"Oh, shit. What happened?"

Quentin sighs, taking a deep drink before he answers. "She woke me up, after I didn't get to sleep until three o'clock, and then wouldn't _go away._ Kept insisting that she knew best how to take care of me, et cetera. Eventually I snapped and told her she was smothering me, and it... escalated."

Eliot winces. "Do I even want to ask?"

Quentin blows out a breath. "At one point I said I never saw her except when she was coming over here to stick her face in Kady's cunt," he admits. "And she accused me of following you around like a puppy. And... basically begging for your dick."

Eliot chokes on his sangria. "Well," he coughs. "That's obviously ridiculous." He clears his throat and tries again. "That all sounds... fucking awful, Q. Are you okay?"

Quentin sighs. "I don't know," he confesses. "I told her to get out before we said something we'd really regret, and I'd come find her when I was ready to talk... But she told me to take my time, that she didn't want to see me, either."

"That's clearly not true," Eliot says. "Or it won't be by the time you're ready to talk to her."

"Yeah, I know, but - it still sucks right now, you know? We've never had a fight like that."

"Maybe that means it was overdue," Eliot says, thinking about the truly vicious fights he had with Margo before Christmas. "It could be good for you. Cleansing. You'll be stronger when you come back from it. But!" He gives Quentin a little nudge. "For now, we get you very drunk. Come on. Finish that and I'll get you something else."

Quentin resists for only a moment before he sighs and downs the rest of his sangria. "Alright," he agrees, giving Eliot a smile that’s almost completely genuine. "Yeah, okay. Let's get drunk!"

Eliot throws his head back and laughs before leading the way back to the bar. 

They both lose track of time after that; the alcohol Eliot pours goes down easy with conversation and even a dance. It's more like Eliot dragging Quentin out to the dance floor to jump around in a vague approximation of the beat of an energetic song, but Eliot's still counting it. It puts a smile on Quentin's face and makes him laugh, and that's what matters. 

Eventually, they end up on the couch beside the bar, curled up facing each other and talking just loud enough to be heard over the slowly-quieting remnants of the party. Quentin has just finished expounding on the virtues of a well-written zeugma as a writing device, when he quiets, looking at Eliot with an unreadable expression. Just when Eliot's started to get uncomfortable, Quentin's expression softens into a smile. "Hey," he says, scooting closer until his knee bumps Eliot's. 

Eliot smiles back, sweet and quizzical. "Hey."

Quentin's smile grows, just a little - and then he leans in and presses a swift, slightly-off-center kiss to Eliot's lips. 

Eliot lets out a breath that sounds like a soft, " _Oh,_ " and then his smile is back. He follows Quentin when he pulls away, slides a hand around the back of his neck and kisses him again.

Quentin hums into the kiss, a happy little noise, and presses in, deepening it for a moment before he pulls back. The corners of his eyes are crinkled by his smile, and his hand has found Eliot's on the couch. "Think we should head out?" he asks in a murmur. "Still a lot of people here."

Eliot squeezes the back of Quentin's neck. "A bedroom sounds pretty great right now," he admits.

Quentin's eyes go a little glazed when Eliot's grip tightens, and his breathing hitches. "Let's go, then."

It takes a lot for Eliot to retain his composure as they make their way around to the stairs. He's careful not to let go of Quentin's hand or to look at anything except what's right in front of him, which is helped greatly by his drunken tunnel-vision; he's vaguely aware of Margo trying to catch his eye, but if he loses focus now it'll be game over. So he gets them upstairs at a calm, casual pace - _nothing to see here, folks_ \- and then as soon as his bedroom door is shut behind them he's on Quentin, pressing him back against the wall and dragging him up into a kiss.

Quentin responds immediately, eagerly. His arms wrap around Eliot's shoulders as he presses closer, tilts his head for a better angle, a deeper kiss. He lets the wall take most of his weight for the next kiss and the one after that, but eventually he needs to breathe. Quentin breaks the kiss just long enough to get his breath back before asking, "Bed?"

"Yeah," Eliot sighs. He snatches up Quentin's hand and tugs him back towards the bed.

Quentin goes without resistance, following Eliot's lead the way he has since they met. Eliot ends up on his back, tugging at Quentin until he's settled on top of him. It gives him a rather enjoyable position from which to appreciate the effect he's having on Quentin; his pupils are blown wide, his hands restless against the sheets as he props himself up, and he's obviously turned on. "Eliot," Quentin murmurs, something maybe a little reverent in his tone. "El, I - I wanna touch, where can I - ?"

"Anywhere," Eliot breathes, lost in sensation, in the look in Quentin's eyes. "Anywhere, Q, fuck." And then his hands are back in Quentin's hair and they're kissing again.

Quentin takes the permission Eliot grants and _runs_ with it. His hands feel like they're everywhere, skimming Eliot's shoulders, drifting over his chest to settle against his abs. They linger there for a moment before one drifts lower, curving around Eliot's hip so Quentin can slip his hand lower, knead briefly at Eliot's ass before he uses that same hand to slide down Eliot's thigh, hike his leg up and encourage Eliot to wrap it around his own. Eliot does just that, and arches against him when he feels Quentin's erection, turning his head to break their kiss with a gasp.

"Fuck," he says again, a little laughter in his voice. "You feel so good. You gonna let me do something about that?"

Quentin makes a low noise in the back of his throat, hips rolling like he can't help but press in closer to Eliot. "Yeah," he breathes, kissing down the curve of Eliot's jaw. "Yeah, I - If you want to."

"I do," Eliot sighs, tugging on Quentin's hair just a little. "I want to get my mouth on you."

" _Fuck,_ " Quentin gasps, lifting up for another hard, drugging kiss. They indulge in it for a long moment before Quentin pulls back. "That sounds - great, but. I want to - to get you off, too."

Eliot sighs out a harsh breath, and squints at Quentin through the fog of lust and alcohol. "What?"

"I want you," Quentin says, holding Eliot's gaze. His expression is still hot and heavy, but there's an earnestness to it, as well. 

Eliot fights the urge to squirm beneath him, and covers it with a laugh instead, reaching up to press a clumsy kiss to Quentin's lips. "Don't worry about me," he says. "I just want to make you feel good."

Quentin allows the kiss, even presses in for another - but it's not as hot and heavy as the others, and when he pulls back, he sighs. "Maybe we should pump the brakes," he murmurs. 

"What?" Eliot asks again, his hand slipping back down to Quentin's neck. "No, just, c'mere."

Quentin wavers, Eliot can see it in his expression - but he can just as clearly see the moment his resolve hardens. "No, we - " He blows out a breath. "We're drunk. _Really_ drunk. I don't - think that it's a good idea. To just, y'know, dive in."

"You don't want to?" Eliot asks, and he hates the way his voice sounds.

Quentin shakes his head. "No, I do, I just - Not when we're drunk. Don't want any regrets."

"Regrets," Eliot repeats. He feels hollow. He lets his hands slip away from Quentin to land against the bed, and turns his head away. "Um. You should probably get off me, then."

Quentin does so immediately, carefully; he watches Eliot with something a lot like concern in his eyes as he sits back on the bed. "El?"

"It's fine," Eliot says, sitting up and doing his best to seem unaffected. He gives Quentin a strained smile. "Let's just save our overthinking for class."

Quentin's own smile is uncertain, and his gaze is a little too piercing. "Yeah," he agrees. "That - " He clears his throat. "Okay. I, um, guess I should go?"

"Yeah," Eliot says. His gaze flickers to Quentin's face and then away again. "I'll see you tomorrow."

Quentin bites his lip, but doesn't say anything else as he slides off of Eliot's bed and slips out the door. 

* * *

Eliot spends the rest of the next day in his bed avoiding the world at large. Eventually, however, he makes his way downstairs and into the kitchen, where he busies himself pulling out and organizing ingredients and various kitchen tools. He gets absorbed in his work, to the point where he jumps when Margo clears her throat behind him and asks, "You planning to feed the entire fucking campus?"

Eliot sighs and turns sharply to face her. "If you're going to be a bitch, can you do it somewhere not here?"

Margo raises an eyebrow. "Who pissed in your Cheerios?"

Eliot just turns away from her and goes back to mixing his brownie batter. "Forget it."

Margo's quiet for a moment, and then Eliot hears her footsteps coming closer. "El. What’s wrong? I thought you and Q were spending the day in bed, but - "

Eliot barks out a harsh laugh. "Oh, no," he says. "Quentin and I didn't even spend the night in bed. He bailed before I even got his pants off."

Margo's surprise is clear in her tone. " _What?_ Why?"

"Because he wanted to fuck me, and I said no."

Margo's come close enough now that Eliot can see her frown. "Really? That's all he wanted to do, didn't want to try _anything_ else?"

Eliot shrugs. "I offered to suck him off, he said he'd rather do something that involved, like, other parts of me."

Margo's frown deepens. "Did he actually say that?"

"Pretty much?" Eliot turns to frown at her. "I was drunk, Margo, I can't give you a full play-by-play."

"Right, of course. It's just that... Well, that doesn't exactly sound like Quentin, Eliot," Margo points out. "He's been ass over tits for you for _months,_ and he's not a fetishizing dickhead."

"Is he not?" Eliot asks. "We thought that about Mike, too, and without sounding like an asshole, we've heard Quentin _say_ he likes guys, but have we ever actually seen him with a dick in his mouth? Maybe he only likes guys who have a cunt."

Margo stares at him for a solid thirty seconds before her mouth flattens into a hard line. "The only reason," she says, tone low, "that I am not slapping you for that godawful biphobic shit you just spewed, is because you're my best friend and you're hurting. Quentin says he's bi, then he's bi, and _we_ don't get to decide he isn't. Quentin isn't _anything_ like Mike, and you know exactly how badly it would wreck him to hear you make that comparison."

Eliot closes his eyes against the look on Margo's face, and takes a deep breath. "Well," he says, "whatever his reasons, he put a stop to it. He left. I think that speaks louder than anything else."

"It does," Margo concedes. "But that could be good or bad. Did he say anything about _why_ he wanted to stop?"

"Just that we'd regret it if we carried on," Eliot says.

Margo raises an eyebrow. "Did he say anything else?"

"I don't think so?"

"Okay." Margo takes a deep breath, clearly choosing her words carefully. "I think you need to really think about what you know about Quentin, and what he's like. I wasn't there this time, but it sounds like Quentin wanted to do things you were _both_ comfortable with, and not just let you suck his dick and kick him out afterwards."

"I wouldn't have done that, though," Eliot insists. "It's _Quentin_. Besides, I know he--" His eyes widen. "Ah."

"'Ah,' what?"

Eliot is kind of scared to meet her gaze. "He... might have told me last week that he likes to reciprocate? Make sure that his partners have a good time, too?"

Margo's expression does something complicated, like she doesn't know whether to punch him in the shoulder or facepalm. She settles on neither, instead sighing heavily before speaking again. "So. You think maybe he wanted to actually have sex _with_ you? And when you didn't immediately jump on board with that, Quentin _respected your boundaries_ and the fact that you were both fucked up?"

Eliot's gaze wanders off towards the ceiling, in a way that's more petulant than it is defiant. "Listen," he says, "the boy I really like finally kissed me, and when he decided to put a stop to things and leave the room, it hurt. I suppose there might be a chance that I overreacted, based on my past experiences with boys who just see me as a set of holes to fuck. Okay? Is that what you want to hear?"

Margo opens her mouth to respond, but the sound of someone else clearing their throat interrupts her. "That kind of is," Quentin says; when he steps into view, he's smiling, small and uncertain. "I really like you, too, but I probably could've been clearer last night."

Eliot sucks in a sharp breath, but he makes himself face Quentin. "Clearer how?" he asks.

Quentin's gaze flicks to Margo, who smirks knowingly, before returning to Eliot. "Maybe we should talk somewhere else?"

Eliot glances down at the bowl nestled in the crook of his arm. "Meet me upstairs?" he suggests. "I just need to put this in the oven."

Quentin nods. "Sure," he says. 

"I'll walk you," Margo says brightly, grabbing Quentin's arm and leading him away before Eliot can say anything. 

Eliot takes his time pouring the batter out into a baking tin and putting it in the oven, but when he can dawdle no longer he gathers what little composure he can muster and heads upstairs. He finds Quentin in Eliot's own room, sitting on the bed that already holds too many memories. He looks as nervous as Eliot feels. "Hey," he says. "You okay?"

"Yeah, just some light verbal evisceration, mostly threats about how they'll never find more than a fifth of my body if I fuck this up," Quentin says, laughing. "I'm really hoping I don't fuck it up for selfish reasons that have nothing to do with your protective best friend, though."

Eliot winces. "Still, I'm sorry about her," he says. "Especially after Mike, she's... very protective, like you said."

"I don't blame her," Quentin says, shifting on the bed. He gives Eliot a smile and pats the bed. "We should probably talk, though. Since Margo knows we're doing it."

"Sure," Eliot says - but he hesitates. Now that he's here and Quentin wants to talk, he can feel himself clamming up. "Um. How much did you hear, downstairs?"

"Just that last little bit," Quentin answers, watching Eliot carefully. 

Eliot nods. "Okay," he says. "Right. Um."

Quentin takes a deep breath when it’s clear Eliot can’t continue. "I don't just see you as a set of holes to fuck," he says. "I really, _really_ like you, Eliot - all of you. I didn't want to just be another one of the guys that you've fucked before. But I... We were so drunk, I didn't want - I didn't want to cross a line, y'know?"

"No," Eliot admits, "I don't know. I don't give most guys the chance to cross that line - and Mike... Well. He was a little too interested in certain parts of me. He crossed all the lines, but he made it feel like acceptance, at least at first." He can hear Margo cursing him out in his head for that. He wraps his arms around himself. "I'm not saying you're like that. I just don't know what anything different looks like. When I said no, and you pulled away from me..."

Quentin's expression is pained. "I - We were drunk off our asses, that wasn't the best time for an in-depth talk about boundaries. I wanted to do stuff we were both comfortable with, but when you kept brushing it off, I thought maybe we should slow down, until we could talk about things. Then you told me to get off of you, and couldn't even _look_ at me, so I - I thought you wanted me to leave."

"I don't know what I wanted," Eliot confesses. "I don't know what the rules are, here. Some guy I'll never see again, yeah, sure, I understand that. But you're one of my best friends. I've had sex with Margo, obviously, but I don't want this to be like that."

"Okay," Quentin says softly. "So what do you want, if you don't want this to be like Margo?"

Eliot actually takes a step back. "I don't know if I can answer that."

"Okay." Quentin pauses, licks his lips. "Why don't I tell you what I wanted? What I want?"

Eliot hesitates - but he nods. "Okay."

Quentin smiles encouragingly. "I want you," he says. "Whatever parts of you you're willing to give. I... don't really want this to be just sex between friends, because I _really_ like you. Like, an almost embarrassing amount. Last night, I just meant that I wanted to get you off, too, however you'd let me. I didn't want you to just suck my dick and then expect me to roll over and fall asleep, or - or fucking _leave._ " He hesitates, takes a deep breath, and then admits, "What I really want is a relationship with you. But you're one of my best friends, too, and I don't want to risk that. I think we could be good together, but if you don't agree, if you just want to stay friends, then that's okay, too, and we can do that."

But Eliot shakes his head. "I don't think we can do that, Q."

"Which part?"

"The being friends part."

Something an awful lot like worried hurt flashes across Quentin's expression. "Okay?"

Eliot sighs. "I can't know what it's like to kiss you and just never kiss you again."

"Oh," Quentin breathes, eyes widening. "So... You mean - ?"

"I mean yes," Eliot says. "I'm sick of being scared. I want everything you want, so if you think it's worth it, even now, then yes."

Quentin blinks, like he didn't expect Eliot to just come out and _say_ all of that, but then he smiles. He's practically _beaming_ as he gets to his feet, moving closer to Eliot. "I do," he promises. "I think it's worth trying."

Eliot nods. He feels like his strings have been cut; he's just drained. "Okay."

Quentin steps closer, reaching out until he can take Eliot's hand in his. "I - " He stops, swallows, tries again. "I want to kiss you, when we aren't drunk. Can I?"

Eliot's lips part, and he nods. "Yeah."

Quentin smiles, something soft and sweet, as he closes the distance between them. He steps in until he can reach up, curve a hand around the back of Eliot's neck, and pull him down into a gentle, lingering kiss. 

Eliot doesn't go very far when they pull apart; he just rests his forehead against Quentin's, his eyes closed. "Yeah," he sighs, "there's really no going back from that."

"Good," Quentin says, surprisingly fierce. "I - I don't want to go back. I want to keep moving forward."

What the fuck is Eliot supposed to say to that? He just wraps his arms around Quentin and pulls him in against his chest. "We will," he promises.

* * *

And they do. They end up spending most of the time that the brownies are baking in Eliot’s room making out, but even after, when they venture downstairs to get the brownies and some actual non-dessert food, they don’t go too far from each other. Margo declares them nauseating and disappears upstairs with a solid third of the brownies Eliot just made. Quentin and Eliot ignore her, as well as the other Physical students who give them odd looks as they spend the evening together.

That night, Eliot pulls Quentin into his bedroom, and they spend some time making out again - but neither of them reach for the other’s clothes, and Quentin never even gets fully hard before they roll under the sheets and curl up together to fall asleep. It’s nice, waking up wrapped around each other and knowing that they don’t have to try to separate before the other wakes up, or face an awkward morning after. 

Eliot makes them breakfast, luring a grumpy Quentin out of bed with the promise of a perfectly-cooked omelette all to himself before he has to go to class. Quentin heads to his room to get dressed while Eliot cooks the promised breakfast, making some coffee to go with it. By the time Quentin comes downstairs and eats and has a cup, he’s mostly human, and he gives Eliot a lingering kiss before he heads out of the Cottage.

His classes pass slowly, and by the time he’s finally free, Quentin is _dragging._ So, when he spots Eliot on the couch, lounging and idly flipping through some of his own notes, Quentin feels no shame in dropping his bag at the end of the couch before letting himself drop down on Eliot, stretching so that he’s lying on top of him. “Hi,” he mumbles, wrapping his arms around Eliot’s waist and tilting his head in blatant invitation.

Eliot leans up to grant him a kiss, humming against Quentin's lips. "Rough day, sweetie?"

"Just long," Quentin sighs. "Yours?"

"Ugh, same," Eliot groans. "Did you know I'm actually going to classes now? I hate it."

Quentin hums. "I'm proud of you, though," he offers, pressing up for another kiss. "Taking things just a little more seriously."

"Just a little," Eliot allows. "But I'm happy to take a study break for you."

Quentin smiles. "Perfect," he says. "I was thinking - "

They're interrupted by the front door opening; they both turn to look in a kind of automatic, disinterested way - but Quentin freezes when he sees Julia walk in.

He only feels marginally better when she freezes, too.

"Um," she says, staring openly at them sprawled together on the couch. "What?"

"What?" Quentin echoes, unable to help the defensive note to his tone. 

Julia blinks. "Are you two...?"

"Are we what?" Quentin asks, tensing against Eliot. 

Julia hesitates, clearly weighing her next words - but then she shakes her head. "You know what? Never mind. I'll see you later, Q." She turns away and heads for the stairs.

Quentin bites his lip, exchanging a look with Eliot before he makes up his mind. "I'll be back," he murmurs, leaning in for one more kiss before he levers himself off of Eliot and the couch, following Julia. "Jules, wait."

Julia stalls with her hand on the bannister and turns to look at him. "What?"

Quentin takes a deep breath. "I - I want to talk to you."

Julia looks like she wants to do anything but, but she can't exactly say no. "Okay. So talk."

"I'm sorry for blowing up on you, and for the things I said," he says first, because those are most important. "And I'm sorry for not saying anything about how I felt earlier, too. I should have, but I - I missed you. And it was the most time we'd spent together since coming to Brakebills, and I. I didn't want things to go back to how they were, but I didn't know how to _say_ that."

"Okay," Julia says. "I'm sorry that I made you feel like I was smothering you. I... I care about you so much, Q, you're my best friend, and I've seen you spiral before. I don't want you to get sick again, like, really sick. And I guess I don't trust you or anyone else to take care of you when you're in a bad place. I still don't think I trust anyone else, but I should at least trust you to know yourself."

"I'd appreciate that," Quentin says, but he's clearly teasing. "I'll - We'll talk later? I just... Wanted to apologize."

"Me too," Julia says. She looks pained. "Q, if you and Eliot are... If you're happy, then I'm happy for you."

Quentin glances back over his shoulder, to where Eliot is very studiously poring over the same note page he had in his hand when Quentin walked into the Cottage. He smiles, turning back to Julia. "We are," he assures her. "And - The same goes for you, and Penny and Kady."

Julia smiles, a little tentative but genuine nonetheless. "Thank you. I'll come and find you before I leave?"

"That sounds good," Quentin agrees, taking a step back and giving Julia a smile. "See you then."

Eliot fakes studying only until Quentin comes back into the room, and then he launches his notes and sits up to look at him. "You okay?" he asks.

Quentin drops himself into Eliot's lap with a heavy sigh. "I don't know," he admits, letting his head fall against Eliot’s shoulder. "I mean, I think that went well? But it's always awkward after a fight, and this one was. Awful."

Eliot sinks his fingers into Quentin's hair with a sigh. "She's coming to talk more later, though, right? That's good."

Quentin nods, pressing in closer and wrapping his arms around Eliot. "Yeah, she is. She also said... She was happy for us. If we make each other happy."

"I heard," Eliot says, scritching his fingers against Quentin's scalp. "And that's good, too. Wasn't she bitching you out two days ago for chasing after my dick?"

Quentin rolls his eyes, but he can't help but smile. "Yeah. I think it was just because I was bitching at her about how I never saw her when she wasn't about to fuck Kady, though. Jules is vicious when she's defensive, and... Well. She knew I'd had this ridiculous crush on you for months."

"Oh, _months_ ," Eliot repeats, grinning. "Really?"

Quentin grumbles wordlessly, hiding his face in the crook of Eliot's neck. "You know exactly what kind of effect you've always had on me," he mumbles. 

Eliot softens considerably at that. "I do," he says. "I've been experiencing something similar."

Quentin smiles. "Well, good, that makes it a little less embarrassing," he murmurs, unable to stop himself from pressing a soft kiss to the thrum of Eliot's pulse below his lips. 

Eliot hums quietly, strokes his hand down Quentin's back. "There's nothing to be embarrassed about."

"Easy for you to say, you confident motherfucker," Quentin grumbles, but he's still smiling, and his arms tighten around Eliot before he settles himself more comfortably against Eliot. He sighs, content, and directs their conversation to easier topics. 

* * *

It takes several hours for Julia to come looking for Quentin, and when she does she finds him in Eliot's room, sprawled out with him on the bed. She knocks gently on the door frame and pokes her head around the door, which has been left half open in anticipation of this very moment. "Hey," she says. "Am I interrupting?"

Quentin looks up from his book fast enough that Julia knows he hasn't actually been paying attention to it. "No, not at all," he says, smiling and closing the book. 

"Then can we talk?" Julia asks, her gaze flitting briefly to Eliot. "Alone?"

Quentin nods, sitting up so he can scoot to the edge of the bed. "Yeah, we can - My room?"

"Sure," Julia says, and steps back from the door.

Quentin gives Eliot's knee a pat before he stands up, leading the way from Eliot's room to his own. Neither he nor Julia speak on the way, but once they're in his room with the door shut, Quentin speaks. "So. Did you, Kady, and Penny finally... sort everything out?"

"Oh, yeah," Julia says, with a small, secret smile. "I think so. We're all on the same page now, anyway. And we're all together. But what about you and Eliot?"

"It was... predictably dramatic," Quentin laughs. "But - we figured it out, got on the same page. Got together. He's - really good for me, Jules."

"Are you sure?" Julia asks, like she can't quite help herself.

Quentin pushes down the reflexive defensive urge in favor of nodding. "I'm sure, Julia. There's... a lot more to him, than what he usually lets people see. And Dad likes him, so."

"I didn't mean that to come out how it did," Julia says. "I just... I'm worried. I don't want you to start leaning on him only for him to walk away when he gets bored or things get too much."

"I know," Quentin sighs. "But... Him and Margo, they were there for me through some pretty bad times last semester. And he was there for Dad's hospitalization. He knows how bad things can get for me."

"And he supported you?" Julia presses. "He looked after you?"

"Yeah. I mean, there was a learning curve, but. He really cares, Jules."

Julia nods. "All right," she says. "For the record, I'm sorry for the things I said about him. I think I was a little jealous."

Quentin laughs quietly. "I was a little jealous of Kady and Penny," he confesses. "I wasn't... used to sharing you."

"James," Julia says, smiling gently.

Quentin shrugs. "He was also my friend, so. I still saw you a lot."

"I guess," Julia says. She sighs. "I'm really sorry, Q. I want to get to know Eliot; I want to trust him with you."

"I want you to know him, too," Quentin says earnestly. "You're the two most important people in my life. So... Can we try? I'm not asking you to trust _him_ right away - I'm just. Asking you to trust _me._ "

"I will," Julia promises. "I do. I just... let myself get in the way of that, sometimes."

Quentin's smile softens into something understanding. "Yeah, I get that."

* * *

Quentin and Julia spend a good two hours talking before she finally heads back to her dorm, and Quentin returns to Eliot's room. The rest of the week is... a bit strained, but they make it. Julia doesn't hover the way she had been, but she isn't _absent,_ either. Their conversations are still a bit awkward, even more so whenever Eliot or Kady - or, on one particularly awkward afternoon, Penny - is present, as well. Still, they make it to the end of the week without another fight, and when Quentin gets a none-too-subtle hint from his dad about another visit, he asks Julia first. She has some projects to work on that she can't leave just yet, but she promises to come visit on Saturday. 

So, Quentin seeks out Eliot. He finds his - his _boyfriend,_ which still makes him grin like an idiot whenever he thinks about it for too long, in the kitchen. He's just pulling a batch of cupcakes out of the oven, and Quentin takes an appreciative sniff. "Those smell amazing," he says. "What kind are they?"

"Chocolate and cherry," Eliot tells him, and swats at Quentin's hand when he reaches for one. "Excuse yourself, they need to cool and then I need to ice them."

Quentin pouts, mostly for show, before he changes the subject. "So, I heard from my dad."

"Oh really?" Eliot asks, tensing almost imperceptibly. "Is he okay?"

"He's fine," Quentin hastens to assure Eliot. "Just - he dropped some pretty unsubtle hints about coming to see him. I told him I'd come this weekend, and he asked about you and Jules. Julia's going to come out on Saturday, but... I was wondering if you wanted to come out with me."

"Oh," Eliot says. He turns to look at Quentin, surprise clear on his face. "Are you sure?"

Quentin smiles. "Yeah, I'm sure. I'm heading out tonight, gonna meet him at Red Lobster for dinner."

"And I'm invited," Eliot says. "For dinner?"

Quentin nods. "And the weekend, if you want to stay."

Eliot blinks. "But why?"

"Because Dad already said he wanted to see you again; he liked you," Quentin reminds him. His expression turns a little sheepish, a little uncertain, then, and he reaches up and rubs the back of his neck. "And, well. We're dating. I'd like my dad to know my boyfriend."

"Have you told him?" Eliot demands.

"Not yet," Quentin says, clearly confused by Eliot's vehemence. "I was going to this weekend."

Eliot's expression shutters. "Right," he says. "Then I guess I should be there for that."

Quentin hesitates, feeling wrong-footed. "El, talk to me? Do you... not want my dad to know? You don't have to be there if you don't want to be, and I don't have to tell him right now."

But Eliot shakes his head. "No, it's fine. He's your dad. If you want to tell him, you can."

"Okay. So, why the panic?" Quentin presses, as gently as he can. 

Eliot huffs. "I don't know," he says. "I guess I just don't have the best experience with, like, _being myself_ in front of parental figures."

"That's fair," Quentin allows, stepping in closer and reaching for Eliot's hand with a careful movement. "But you've met my dad. You know he's pretty decent. But if you don't want to come, there's no pressure."

"It's not that," Eliot promises. "I like your dad. I want to be there."

"Okay," Quentin says. "So do you want to tell him about us?"

"If you do," Eliot says.

"I do, but I want you to be comfortable more," Quentin says, smiling. "And we don't have to tell him anything other than that we're together; that's going to be big enough news as it is. He's _never_ going to stop teasing me."

Eliot manages a laugh at that. "You've had boyfriends before, right?"

Quentin flushes at that, but he's smiling. "Well, yeah, but I think you're underestimating just how much I talked about you over winter break."

Eliot's answering grin is sharp, and he reels Quentin into his arms so that he can kiss him. "Please," he says, "never stop telling me about your huge crush on me. I'm living."

Quentin allows the kiss, but he still thumps Eliot on the shoulder for his teasing. "You were just as bad, if the shovel talk I got from Margo is anything to go by," he laughs, leaning in for another kiss. "So, does this mean you're coming this weekend?"

"I could never deny you anything," Eliot tells him, quite seriously. "Yes, I'll come."

Quentin smiles, tugging Eliot in for another kiss. "I promise I'll do my best to only use this power over you for good," he promises, half-teasing, half-serious. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," Eliot says, with a genteel smile. "I'm sure I'll find a way for you to make it up to me."

* * *

Quentin hangs out in the kitchen while Eliot finishes the cupcakes, and then they head upstairs to pack for the weekend. Once they have all of their things, they make their way to the portal and onto the streets of New York. From there it's a train ride to New Jersey and an Uber to the Red Lobster, but they make it in time for dinner. The hostess leads them to the booth where Ted is already seated, and Quentin wastes no time in dropping his duffel bag and kicking it under the table so he can wrap his dad in a tight hug. 

When they finally part, Ted turns to Eliot with an expectant, fond look, his arms open in invitation. "It’s good to see you again, son," he says with a genuine smile. 

"Oh," Eliot says, a little stunned. "You, too." He gives Ted the hug he wants, and though it's a little stiff and awkward, both men pull back smiling. "How are you?"

"I'm doing good," Ted says, still smiling as they settle into the booth, watching the way that Quentin and Eliot easily arrange themselves. "How about you two? How have things been on campus?"

"We're pretty much back to business as usual," Eliot says, eager to deflect attention away from himself. "Especially since Julia's been back on the scene."

Ted allows the change in focus, looking at Quentin with a raised eyebrow. "Yes, you told me you two had one hell of a fight."

Quentin flushes. "Yeah, it was... pretty nasty."

"Overdue, then," Ted translates with a knowing smile. "The last time you two fought was in high school."

"It was short-lived," Eliot offers. "They made up after a couple of days. It was very dramatic."

Ted sighs, expression fond. "They always have been," he confides, like it's some great secret. 

"Rude," Quentin sniffs, turning to beam at their server who's just approached their table. "Hi, any chance I could get some really strong alcohol to deal with these two jerks?"

The server - whose name tag identifies them as Dakota, along with their pronouns - gives him a grin. "Well, if you're _really_ desperate..."

Ted snorts. "Ignore him, he's just being a pain, too."

Quentin very maturely sticks his tongue out at his father before turning back to Dakota. "Seriously though, could I get a margarita on the rocks?"

"Sure thing. And for you fellows?"

"You know what?" Eliot muses. "I'll have the same."

Dakota jots that down before turning to Ted, who gives them a winning smile. "Corona in the bottle, please."

Dakota writes that down and then gives them a smile. "I'll run this back to the bar and give you folks a few minutes to figure out what you want to eat," they say brightly. 

They chat about everything and nothing while they wait for first their drinks and then their food, but once their meal arrives Ted turns his soft, keen eyes on both of them in a way that makes the hair on the back of Eliot's neck stand up. "So," he says, "catch me up. What else is new with you two?"

Quentin hesitates, glancing at Eliot. "Not a lot," he says slowly, turning back to his dad. "Um, we've mostly been focusing on class stuff. But we've also... talked. About a lot of different stuff, and we - " Quentin cuts himself off, taking a deep breath before he takes the plunge. "And we figured out that we really like each other and. Started seeing each other. Dating."

"Dating?" Ted asks, and Eliot's heart seizes in his chest for a single instant before Ted's whole face lights up. "Well, it's about damn time!"

Quentin flushes, but he's smiling nonetheless. "Yeah, yeah. We've already had Margo gloating about it."

Ted just beams, and turns to Eliot. "Welcome to the family, son."

Eliot goes bright red. "Oh, I, um. Thanks?"

"Jesus, Dad," Quentin laughs, his own flush matching Eliot's. He kicks at his father's foot. "It's still really new, don't go scaring him off."

"Yeah, he's sticking around though," Ted says, a twinkle in his eye. "I can tell."

Eliot's flush deepens and he looks away, but he's smiling just a little. "I definitely intend to."

* * *

It's late when they get back to Ted's house, but not so late that they need to go to bed. Eliot suggests a nightcap, and heads into the kitchen to prepare it. It isn't long until he hears footsteps in the hall outside and then the kitchen door opens. "Is it weird," Eliot asks, "that I just know my way around this kitchen now?" He turns to throw a smile over his shoulder at Quentin - and stalls when he sees that it isn't Quentin who has joined him at all. "Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realise--"

Ted's smile is soft. "It's alright," he assures Eliot. "Q's busy with the DVR. I just wanted to check in with you."

"With me?" Eliot asks, frowning slightly. "Why?"

"Because I like you," Ted says honestly. "And I don't think you have a whole lot of people _to_ check in on you, if I'm reading between the lines right."

Eliot winces, but he doesn't lie. "I learned to look out for myself a long time ago," he says.

Ted's expression is understanding as he nods. "Well, you've got two more people in your corner," he says, giving Eliot a smile as he reaches for his shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze before releasing. "And a place to stay if you ever need it."

Eliot smiles back, small but genuine. "Thanks," he says. "I really appreciate it." He hesitates. " And I care about your son very much, in case you were wondering."

"I wasn't," Ted says easily. "It's plain to see. But thank you for saying it out loud."

"I get the feeling that people have fucked him around in the past," Eliot offers. "I want you to know that I'm not going to do that."

Ted gives Eliot another gentle smile. "I appreciate that," he says. "Come on, Q's probably found a show by now and wondering where we are."

Eliot hesitates only for a moment before he levitates their drinks off the counter, and gestures for Ted to lead the way. "After you."

* * *

The weekend passes far too quickly for anyone's liking. Ted, Quentin, and Eliot find an easy routine Saturday before dinner with Julia, which is slightly awkward, mostly because it’s clear Julia still doesn't quite trust Eliot. But she's trying, so Quentin and Ted give her credit for that and leave the matter be. Sunday is another lazy day; Quentin and Eliot stay in bed for most of the morning, finally rolling out when Eliot insists he needs to thank Ted for his hospitality by cooking a proper Sunday lunch. Quentin follows, grumbling and tucked into a blanket snagged from the back of the couch, and settles into a chair from the dining room table, dragged into the kitchen so Quentin can watch Eliot work while nursing a cup of coffee. 

Breakfast is a hit, with Ted complimenting Eliot profusely. Quentin can tell he's a little overwhelmed, so he herds his dad into the living room with a challenge about finding something _other_ than a golf tournament to watch, and gives Eliot time to collect himself. When Eliot finally emerges from the kitchen, Ted has settled on an episode of _North Woods Law,_ and Quentin tugs Eliot down onto the couch with him. 

The day passes quietly, the three of them occupying themselves with idle conversation and channel surfing until it's finally time for Quentin and Eliot to head back to campus. Quentin heads upstairs to gather their things, and frankly isn't surprised when his dad follows him into the room he'd shared with Eliot. "Alright, spit it out," Quentin says, amused, as he turns to face his dad. 

"I don't know what you think I'm here to say," Ted says, his eyes wide and innocent. "I just wanted to say goodbye."

"Alone, in my room, where El can't hear, and before we're actually leaving? Yeah, okay, pull the other one, Dad," Quentin snorts. 

Ted capitulates easily. "Okay," he says, "I wanted to talk to you about Eliot. And this is probably the kind of conversation I should be having with him, but he's already spoken to me and I don't think I have anything to worry about."

Quentin's brow furrows. "What talk?"

"The 'please don't hurt him' talk," Ted says with a wince. "I know you're a good kid, Q, but he seems kind of... I don't want to say 'fragile'. But he really cares about you, and I think it would fuck him up if you walked away."

Quentin feels his expression soften, and his arms drop from where they're crossed over his chest. "Yeah, I know," he says quietly. "It would fuck him up - I saw it happen last semester. But I don't plan on walking away from him anytime soon." Quentin hesitates, then admits, "I - He's the kind of guy I could see fifty years with."

Ted smiles at that, and Quentin notices that the creases around his eyes are a little deeper than they used to be. "Good," he says. "I'm not saying you need to go buy a ring, but that guy's a keeper. I like him. And he's very obviously head-over-heels in love with you."

Quentin flushes. "We haven't said anything like that, but. I care about him, too," he says. "It's not gonna be really _easy,_ but I think it'll be worth it."

Ted's smile deepens. "If it's worth it, it's never easy," he says.

Quentin laughs. "Yeah, I know," he assures his father. "And - thanks. For caring about El."

"I care about you, too," Ted promises. "If he hurts you I'll hunt him down, Magician or not. But I really don't think he will."

Quentin smiles. "Good," he says, stepping forward so he can pull Ted into a hug. "Now let me get our stuff together so we can get back to campus at a reasonable time, okay?"

Ted squeezes him tight and lets him go. "I'll wait for you downstairs."

* * *

When Ted hugs them goodbye this time, Eliot is slightly less stiff. Quentin is tempted to tease him about it, but refrains in favor of watching with a small smile before they head out the door. The journey back to campus is uneventful, and Quentin and Eliot spend some time with Margo downstairs by the bar before they head upstairs to unpack. 

Of course, they get distracted halfway through, and end up on Eliot's bed making out. When they accidentally kick Quentin's bag off of the bed - okay, when _Quentin_ accidentally kicks his own bag off of the bed, it makes them pause, and Quentin snorts. "Oops," he says, grinning. "Least there was nothing breakable in there." His own words bring something to mind, though, and Quentin bites his lip, suddenly distracted. 

"What is it?" Eliot asks, frowning up at him.

"Nothing, just..." Quentin gives Eliot a smile. "Something my dad said before we left."

Eliot squirms a little, but his expression is curious rather than guarded. "You gonna share with the class?"

Quentin licks his lips, but when he smiles again, it's soft, fond. "He said, I better not break _you,_ because he could see you're in love with me," he says, quiet. 

Eliot's chest hitches beneath Quentin, his eyes wide. "Oh," he breathes. "Well. That's a bold statement."

"It is," Quentin agrees. "But... I think he's right. At least, I hope he is."

Eliot can't take his eyes off Quentin's face. He looks curious still, in a kind of wondering way that makes him seem young and vulnerable, but trusting. He must trust Quentin so much. "He's right," he murmurs. "About both things."

Quentin's smile is nothing more than a quirk of his lips, and he reaches up to brush a curl away from Eliot's forehead, letting his hand linger. "Good," he sighs. "Because I love you, too."

Eliot closes his eyes, his lips parted in a soft breath that might be relief. When he meets Quentin's gaze again his own is molten, tender. "If you don't kiss me right now, I'm going to scream."

Quentin grins. "Well, we can't have that," he murmurs, lightly teasing, as he ducks in close to oblige Eliot. 

This kiss is nothing like the kisses they've shared before. It's soft, searching; one of Eliot's hands finds the back of Quentin's neck while the other slides around to the small of his back, until Quentin feels cradled against Eliot, gently, like he's something precious. They shift against each other in an unhurried, almost lazy sort of way, like their bodies want to be closer but they know they'll get there. It's only when Quentin settles his weight more fully against him, sinking into the kiss, that he realises Eliot is trembling.

"Hey," Quentin murmurs, breaking away only far enough to speak. His hand shifts, sweeping up Eliot's arm to cup his cheek in his hand. "Everything okay?"

Eliot nods, turns his head to nose against Quentin's palm a little. "I love you," he murmurs. The hand at the small of Quentin's back presses firmer, with purpose. "I want you."

Quentin's breath hitches. "You sure?"

Eliot doesn't hesitate. "Yes."

Quentin ducks in for another kiss, firm but brief. "I want you, too," he sighs. "Fuck, I love you."

Eliot's eyes are still closed when Quentin pulls back, a soft smile playing about his lips. "Show me," he says.

Quentin grins against Eliot's mouth, pressing in for another kiss as his hand shifts again. He adjusts himself for better balance before reaching for the bottom of Eliot's shirt, looking to Eliot for permission before he carefully pulls the shirt out of Eliot's waistband and starts unbuttoning it. Eliot returns the favor, interrupting Quentin halfway through his task to tug Quentin's shirt off. He reaches for the waistband of Quentin's pants just as Quentin finishes unbuttoning Eliot's shirt, and Quentin sits up with a groan, pulling Eliot with him so he can push his shirt off of his shoulders and reach for the hem of his undershirt. "Tell me if I touch somewhere you don't like," he murmurs, waiting once again for Eliot's permission before he continues. 

They trade kisses as they work the rest of their clothes off, neither in any hurry. Eventually, their clothes are in a pile off to the side of the bed, and all Quentin can feel, his eyes closed as he pulls Eliot in for a deep kiss is what seems to be miles and miles of warm skin pressed against his own. "Fuck," he gasps when the kiss finally breaks, pulling back so he can let his gaze rove over Eliot for a long moment. When it lifts, when he meets Eliot's eyes again, he's smiling. "You are so goddamn handsome, you know that?"

Eliot actually blushes, and Quentin gets to watch as it spreads invitingly over his chest. He says, "Yes, I do," but his grin fades into something more serious as he turns his appreciative gaze onto Quentin. "And you are... Fuck, Q. You're beautiful."

Quentin blushes, too, but he's smiling as he pulls Eliot into another kiss. His hands drift over Eliot's shoulders, until one rests just below his collarbone, well above the faded scars. "Can I - "

"Yes," Eliot tells him. "Anything."

Quentin smiles, giving Eliot another kiss before he lets his hand slide over Eliot's chest, fingers catching in the curls of his chest hair before he finally sweeps his thumb over the pebbled skin of his nipple. Eliot gasps, arches against him, and then gives him a look that's almost apologetic.

"Sensitive," he offers.

Quentin chuckles, but obligingly gentles his touch - only a little. "Better?" he asks, affecting an innocent tone. 

"You're an asshole," Eliot complains, but he's grinning, his hips twitching like he wants to fuck something.

Quentin smirks. "Yeah, but you knew this about me already, and you love me anyway," he says, letting his other hand drop so that he can gently pinch and roll both nipples at the same time. 

"Fuck," Eliot sighs, tipping his head back against the pillows. "Fucking _tease._ "

Quentin laughs, leaning in to press a kiss to Eliot's jaw as his hands slide down. He skims over the scars on Eliot's chest, fingers following the dips and curves of his muscles until Quentin can wrap his hands around Eliot's hips and squeeze. One hand follows the jut of his hip bone inward, hovering just over the neatly-trimmed curls. "Okay?" he breathes, lifting his head to meet Eliot's gaze, checking in again. 

Eliot seems pleased by the concern, but also a little impatient. "Quentin," he says, "yes."

Quentin smiles, ducking in for another kiss. "Just want to be sure," he murmurs, and lets his hand drop. His fingers card through the coarse hair as his hand follows the curve of Eliot's body until his fingertips bump against flesh that's hot and hard. "Oh," he sighs, taking Eliot in hand. "Fuck, you're big." Quentin looks up, meeting Eliot's gaze, and does his best to keep his tone soft and open as he asks, "What should I call it?"

"It's my cock," Eliot says, just as soft. He reaches down to grasp Quentin's wrist and guide his hand even lower. His eyes flutter then, and he lets out a breathy moan. "This is my cunt."

" _Fuck._ " Quentin can't help himself, has to press forward for another deep, biting kiss. "Fuck, El, I - You gotta tell me if I do something wrong," he pants, flexing his wrist so he can rub against the outside of Eliot's cunt, grind his palm against his cock. 

Eliot gasps and moans again, deeper this time. His fingers move restlessly against Quentin's wrist, his hips twitching again. "You're not doing anything wrong," he promises. "God, Q, you feel so fucking good."

Quentin grins, breathless, as he repeats the motion, fingers sliding easily between Eliot's folds to find the slick heat there. He lifts his hand again, dragging his fingers against Eliot in a firm motion until he can take his cock in hand once more, thumb rubbing over the tip in a gentle circle. Eliot just melts against the mattress, his hands falling to fist in the sheet like he doesn't know what to do with them. "Oh my fucking God," he whines. "Q, don't tease."

Quentin chuckles, but obligingly firms up his grip. "Better?"

"So good," Eliot sighs. "Don't stop."

Quentin smiles, pressing in for another kiss before he sits up, giving himself room to work. He adjusts his grip, twisting his wrist so he can stroke Eliot's cock without straining, and can't help but lick his lips. Eliot makes a beautiful sight, spread out below Quentin like this; Quentin can see every inch of his flush, can see exactly what effect his touch is having on Eliot as his chest heaves and his hips roll. "Fuck," he sighs, "you're gorgeous."

Eliot flicks his gaze over Quentin, his eyes dark, his pupils blown. "Speak for your fucking self," he says. His attention drops pointedly below Quentin's waist. "I haven't forgotten about you, I swear, I'm just... Fuck, I'm just..."

Quentin grins, gives Eliot's cock another firm stroke, sweeping his thumb in a broad circle over the tip before repeating the motion, a bit faster this time. "You're just... what?"

Eliot jerks beneath him. "Losing my _fucking mind_ ," he groans.

"Good," Quentin hums, his hand moving faster, arm shifting to keep pace with Eliot's hips. "God, I love the way you feel, and you look - _fuck,_ you look amazing like this, I kinda want a picture but not really, 'cause I want to keep this view to myself."

"Tell me," Eliot pants, laughter in his voice. "Come on, Q, talk to me."

"Shit, I..." Even while he searches for words, Quentin's hand never stops; he varies the pattern, adjusts the pressure of his touch. "I don't know what to say, I don't - don't think there _are_ words, you're just. You're goddamn beautiful, like this, you're always so fucking attractive, so hot in those vests and jackets, but this is. It's _better,_ because I'm the only one who gets to see it, gets to touch."

"Do you like it?" Eliot presses, low and urgent. "Do you like touching my cock?"

"I love it," Quentin groans. "I - You fit so goddamn perfect in my hand, _fuck,_ Eliot."

"Soon," Eliot promises, his hips working desperately, his cock impossibly hard and slick against Quentin's fingers. "You can fuck me however you want, but I need to come, Q, make me come."

"Tell me how," Quentin requests, hand moving with Eliot's hips, giving him the friction he so clearly, desperately wants. "Tell me how to make you come, El, I want to make you come."

"Harder," Eliot gasps. "Faster. Make it messy. And--" He reaches blindly for Quentin's other hand, and when he finds it, shoves it down between his legs. "Finger me."

Quentin swears under his breath. "Where?" he asks, shifting the hand Eliot just moved so he can press his fingertips to the wet heat of Eliot's cunt. "Here?" He shifts again, his hand moving lower - and when he rubs a slow circle over Eliot's hole, the only difference is how much tighter the furled muscle feels beneath his fingers. "Or here?"

"God, yes," Eliot moans. "There, there, _please_."

Quentin hums a wordless, soothing sound - and then he gives Eliot exactly what he wants. He can't talk, too busy concentrating on multitasking, stroking and rubbing Eliot's cock hard and fast with one hand as his other traces slow circles around Eliot's hole, spreading his own slick and encouraging him to relax before Quentin can finally work one finger inside, use that to fuck Eliot in counterpoint to the frantic rhythm of his hips. It doesn't take long after that. Eliot makes a sound like he's been punched and his hips lose their rhythm, torn between grinding up against the hand on his cock and fucking down on the finger in his ass. There's something wild about him as he gives himself over to the demands of his body, and Quentin barely has enough time to realise that he doesn't know who's fucking who anymore before Eliot cries out.

His cock is twitching against Quentin's fingers, his cunt suddenly so much wetter, and Quentin just lets him ride it out until he whines and twists away. "Stop stop stop, oh my god, too much."

Quentin pulls his hand away from Eliot's cock, eases his other back to slip his finger from Eliot's ass, and then can't help but practically throw himself forward, bracing himself on his forearms so he can kiss Eliot hard. "Fuck, that was - that was so _fucking_ hot, El, I love it, I love you," he gasps between kisses. 

"I love you," Eliot pants back, grabbing at Quentin's shoulders to pull him closer. "Fuck, Q, you're amazing, I just-- Give me a minute, okay, and I'll--"

"I wanna suck your cock," Quentin blurts before Eliot can finish his sentence. "I - I wanna get my mouth on you, suck your cock and eat you out, please let me eat you out, El, _please._ "

Eliot laughs, soft and a little strangled. "You realise you've just made me come so hard I saw God, right?"

"Yeah, and I want to do it again," Quentin says earnestly. 

"Fuck," Eliot sighs, squirming a little until he can work a hand between them. Quentin feels it when he slides his fingers over his own cock. "Yeah, okay."

Quentin beams, pressing in for another kiss before he starts working his way lower, over the rest of Eliot's body. He takes a quick detour at Eliot's chest, can't resist running his tongue over and around one of Eliot's nipples just to hear him gasp and moan, feel Eliot arch against his body. Quentin moves on quickly, mouth skimming the muscles of Eliot's stomach until he can press a kiss just above the curls at his groin. He reaches up and lifts Eliot's thighs, hooks them over his shoulders so he has space to make himself comfortable. " _Fuck,_ " Quentin sighs, pausing so he can take in the sight of Eliot's hand on his cock; it's large enough that Quentin bets it would be visible even when Eliot isn’t turned on. "God, you're amazing," he breathes, leaning in to skim his lips over Eliot's wrist, tongue darting out to lick over his palm, tease them both with sensation and taste. 

Eliot sighs with pleasure, his fingers still moving on his cock. "Just keeping myself hard for you."

Quentin hums, follows Eliot's fingers until he can take them into his mouth and suck them clean. "You taste so good," he groans, tilting his head so he can look up the long lines of Eliot's body and meet his gaze. "I'm gonna suck your cock now, okay?"

Eliot's breath hitches, and he nods.

Quentin smiles, pressing another kiss to Eliot's wrist, and then he dives in. He takes Eliot's cock in his mouth, rolls it on his tongue, and sets about learning _exactly_ how Eliot likes to be sucked off, where he likes Quentin's fingers, and just how wet and messy Quentin can make him. Eliot is beautifully responsive, arching his body, moaning, pulling on Quentin's hair just hard enough that it sends sparks of sensation right to Quentin's dick. He keeps his hips moving, too, like he's trying to fuck Quentin's face, and Quentin loves it. He lets Eliot do exactly what he wants, lets Eliot move him around where he needs Quentin to be, and focuses on sucking his cock. Quentin brings one hand up to rub firmly over Eliot's cunt before he shifts his attention. His mouth trades places with his hand, and he drags the flat of his tongue over Eliot's cock in a long, almost drugging motion, before he settles, eating Eliot out with alternating patterns of short, quick licks and long swipes until his jaw fucking _aches_ with it, and Quentin knows his chin is fucking filthy, can feel Eliot's slick sliding down. 

Eliot is once again losing his fucking mind. He's very loud, and his body is like a live wire, his hands grabbing at everything they can reach, his thighs still hooked over Quentin's shoulders alternately clenching tight around his ears and falling open, slack and trembling. "Q," Eliot moans, tossing his head against the pillow. One hand fists in Quentin's hair again, though it doesn't pull. "Q, fuck, _please..._ "

Quentin hums a quiet question, tilting his head so he can look up at Eliot without stopping what he has now decided is his life's sole purpose. 

Eliot seems to have other ideas, though, because he tugs sharply on Quentin's hair. "I need to come," he gasps.

Quentin groans, lifting his head. "What do you need?" he asks, urgent, his hand never leaving Eliot's cock. "What do I need to do?"

"Suck my cock," Eliot begs, using the hand in Quentin's hair to guide him back down. "Please, please, Q just--"

Quentin goes without resistance, fits his mouth around Eliot's cock and does as Eliot tells him. It takes a minute for him to settle into the rhythm Eliot needs, but once he does it takes seconds. Eliot cries out, bucking his hips, grinding against Quentin's face - and if his chin wasn't soaked before, it certainly is now. Quentin moves with the motion of Eliot's hips, jaw working as he tries to wring every last bit of pleasure out of Eliot's orgasm that he can. His hands have shifted to Eliot's hips, grip almost tight enough to bruise, and the taste and feel of his orgasm is nearly enough to send Quentin over the edge untouched. 

He gets shocked away from the edge, though, when Eliot yanks on his hair hard enough that he almost rips it from his scalp. He releases him as soon as Quentin lifts his head and collapses back against the pillows, chest heaving. "Fuck, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, it was just-- Oh, that was so much."

Quentin wipes at his mouth in a fruitless endeavor to clean himself up just a bit. "Good, though?" he asks, concerned. 

"Worst head I've ever gotten," Eliot tells him, still out of breath. But he gestures vaguely downwards towards his shaking thighs, and when he shifts slightly on the bed and draws Quentin's gaze to his crotch, he sees the not-inconsiderable wet patch beneath him. "Just terrible, really." He grins.

”Guess I’ll need to practice more, then,” Quentin laughs. “Fuck, I don’t know if even magic can clean that up.”

Eliot laughs, too, open and happy. "Just get down here and kiss me."

Quentin grins, gesturing to his face. "Even with this mess?" he asks, leaning forward.

"Especially with this mess," Eliot tells him. He kisses Quentin, licks into his mouth, sighing at the taste of himself on Quentin's tongue, his lips.

Quentin moans against Eliot's mouth, falls into the kiss easily and with reckless abandon. "Fuck, you're amazing, you're gorgeous, I love you," he murmurs between kisses. 

Eliot laughs into his mouth, his hand sure on the back of Quentin's neck even as his other finds its way between his own legs once more. "I love you, too," he murmurs, breath hitching. "I think it's definitely your turn now."

Quentin hums idly, not in any hurry. "Got something in mind?"

Eliot gasps, a grin teasing at the corners of his mouth. Quentin can feel his hand moving beneath him. "I was thinking you could fuck me," he says.

Quentin stills, pulling back to look at Eliot with wide eyes. "What?" he asks, doing his best to ignore the way his pulse and cock jumped in tandem at Eliot's suggestion. 

Eliot smirks. "Oh, I'm sorry," he says, rolling his hips. "Are you not into that?"

"No, it's not - I just - " Quentin snaps his mouth shut, taking a deep breath and running his hand over Eliot's shoulder, an absent-minded motion. "I wasn't sure if _you'd_ be into that, or like. Where the boundary was? So I wasn't going to ask while we're naked."

"Well, I'm telling you," Eliot says, smiling softly now. "Do I need to be clearer?"

Quentin hesitates. "Maybe a little bit? I don't... want to assume anything."

The hand between them stills, and Eliot strokes the nape of Quentin's neck, gentle and reassuring. "I want you inside me," he says.

Quentin smiles, presses in for a kiss. "Yeah, I got that part," he says, only slightly teasing. "I meant, like - where?"

Eliot laughs. "Do you have a preference?"

"Whatever you're most comfortable with," Quentin says earnestly. 

"Quentin," Eliot says, pressing his whole body against Quentin's. "I know what you're doing. And I appreciate it. But I want your cock in my cunt. Do you want that?"

Quentin's breath catches in his throat. "Yes," he breathes. "Yes, I - I want that."

"Good," Eliot says, and kisses him.

Quentin loses himself to the kiss for a few moments before a thought occurs to him. "Do you - We should probably use a condom, right?"

"Mhmm," Eliot mumbles, distracted by the next kiss. The hand between them is moving again, but he wiggles his free fingers until a condom sails over to Quentin from God knows where and lands on the bed beside them.

Quentin ignores it for as long as possible; God, he could spend _hours_ just kissing Eliot, and never need anything more. Eventually, though, he reaches over, pats at the bed until he finds the condom, and pushes himself upright. "How do you want to do this?" he asks, fumbling the condom as he tries to tear it open without looking away from Eliot. 

He looks amazing, spread out on the bed with his hand on his cock, gazing up at Quentin with unadulterated want. "How do you want me?" he asks.

Quentin doesn't answer for a moment - can't, not with the way his breath catches in his lungs because he still can't quite believe he's _here_ \- but then he shakes himself. "Um, I - Like this," he says, quiet but sure. "I want to see you."

"Yeah," Eliot says, his eyes wide. "Me too."

Quentin grins, knows his expression is more than a little sappy as he finally gets the condom wrapper open. "I'd offer to let you put this on," he says, slipping the condom out, "but honestly, if you touch my dick right now, I might come."

Eliot actually looks put out by this. "I've been very selfish tonight," he says. "I promise I'll make up for it."

Quentin frowns, pausing in rolling the condom on. "I offered to suck your dick," he reminds Eliot. "Actually kinda insisted on it."

Eliot shivers a little. "True," he says, smiling. "But I'm working towards orgasm number three, and I haven't even touched you yet."

Quentin snorts, returning Eliot's smile. "We're about to do plenty of touching," he teases. "And besides, there's always next time if this isn't enough for you."

"Mmm, next time," Eliot agrees, and his eyes go dark as they drop to Quentin's dick. "Come here."

Quentin smiles, finishing with the condom and stretching out and over Eliot. "Yes?" he hums, leaning in for a kiss. 

Eliot grants him one and hums again, this time right against his mouth. His arms go around Quentin's shoulders, one hand sliding up into his hair, just to keep him a little closer for a little longer. "Fuck me," he sighs when they part.

Quentin grins, unable to keep himself from humming, “As you wish,” as he carefully reaches between them, taking himself in hand, and pressing the head of his cock against Eliot’s cunt.

Eliot reacts instantly. He throws his head back, rolls his hips, and wraps one leg around Quentin's hip, urging him closer. "Yes," he sighs as Quentin sinks into him. "God, _yes_."

Quentin groans something that might be Eliot's name, but he doesn't stop, rocking his hips in gentle movements and working himself deeper. It's only when he's buried to the hilt that he finally stills, breathing heavily as he looks up, meets Eliot's gaze. "Good?"

"So good," Eliot tells him. "I need you to move."

"Bossy," Quentin laughs, breathless, as he stretches for a kiss before doing as Eliot requests. He keeps his movements slow, careful at first, but after a moment, he starts experimenting, varying his rhythm and angle, trying to find which works best for Eliot. 

Eliot isn't shy about it. His gasps and moans guide Quentin as much as his words, his hands on his skin and in his hair - and when Eliot groans, deep and shocked like he's been punched, Quentin knows he's found the right spot before Eliot tugs on his hair, arches against him, and cries out. "Oh, God, _yes_. Don't stop, don't you dare stop."

"I won't," Quentin promises, breathless. "I won't, I won't." And he doesn't. 

They move together effortlessly, trading kisses and breath and soft sounds. It almost feels like making love, and Eliot might hate that if it didn't feel so good. Before long he's slipping a hand between them to tease at his cock. He's not trying to come, would actually prefer Quentin to come first, but Quentin's in no hurry, and he really isn't stopping, finding that spot deep inside Eliot that makes him see stars with every thrust. Sooner than should have been possible, Eliot is gasping beneath Quentin, his fingers working helplessly over his cock as he starts to shake apart.

"Oh, _fuck,_ " Quentin groans, hips stuttering once, twice, before he finds his rhythm again. "Fuck, El - God, you feel so good."

"So do you," Eliot pants, out of breath. "Just take what you need, baby."

" _Fuck,_ " Quentin gasps, bending down for another kiss, this one almost frantic. "Shit, I - Can you turn over? On your knees?"

Eliot moans. "Fuck, yes."

Quentin pulls out only far and long enough to help Eliot flip over. Once he's on his knees, Quentin pushes back in, unable to keep from bowing over Eliot's back. "Shit," he sighs, pressing a kiss between Eliot's shoulder blades, lips ghosting over his skin. "Christ, El." Slowly, carefully, he pulls back, pushes in again, hips rolling as he starts to increase the pace, work himself back up to the edge. 

"Oh, _fuck_ ," Eliot groans, his breath going shallow as Quentin nails that spot inside him perfectly with every thrust. It's all he can do to brace himself against the headboard and hold on.

Quentin's got one hand on Eliot's hip, his grip tight but not bruising, and the other runs a restless loop up his spine, through his hair, and back, like Quentin can't stop touching him everywhere he can. "God, _El,_ " he breathes, shaky and awed. "Fuck, fuck, I - I love you, I love you so much."

"Love you, too," Eliot gasps. He can't come again, he _knows_ he can't come again, but Quentin feels so good inside of him. "Don't stop."

Quentin laughs breathlessly. "Not planning on it," he says, and picks up the pace, his rhythm stuttering as he drives himself closer to the edge. 

There's something building inside of Eliot. Every time Quentin fucks into him it gets stronger, until his whole body is lighting up with sensation. He can feel it in his gut, in his cock, in his cunt; nothing has ever felt this good. "I'm going to-- I'm going to come again," he groans, already reaching for his cock. "Oh God, Q, fuck me harder, please, fuck me, fuck me, fuck--" He's barely even touched his cock when it happens, pleasure crashing through him like a tidal wave, and then he's gushing all over the sheets.

Quentin's hips stutter as he gasps, "Did you just - ?" Anything else gets lost in a low groan as his hips jerk once, twice, before he stills, pressed as close to Eliot as he can get. Eliot's so sensitive he swears he can _feel_ Quentin's cock jerking inside of him as he comes.

"Oh my _God_ ," Eliot moans. He has both hands planted into the mattress now, the only thing holding him up as he shakes through the aftershocks of his own orgasm. He knows his cunt is milking every drop from Quentin, and he spares a single, fleeting moment of regret that they chose to use a condom - but there'll be plenty of time to revisit that later, when he's actually capable of coherent thought. Right now it's all he can do to keep himself from landing in the soaked sheets beneath him.

” _Fuck,_ ” Quentin pants, breathing heavily as he slumps forward, bracing himself with one hand on the mattress, his other still tight around Eliot’s hip. “Christ, I - Okay, um. I don’t know if this spell will be strong enough, but.” His hands leave Eliot, and there’s a rush of cool and then warm air beneath them, and, miraculously, the sheets are clean. “Okay, okay,” Quentin sighs. “Here, let me…” He shifts behind Eliot, and then slowly and carefully starts to pull out.

Eliot hisses as Quentin slips free, but wastes no time in collapsing against the mattress, spent. " _Fuck_ ," he groans. "Oh my God, I think you've broken me."

Quentin laughs breathlessly behind Eliot, the mattress shifting as he gets rid of the condom. He practically flops onto the bed beside Eliot, reaching out to wrap one arm around his waist. "Is it bad that I'm not particularly sorry about that?"

All Eliot manages is an unintelligible mumble.

Quentin chuckles, scooting closer to Eliot and pressing a kiss to his shoulder. "Go to sleep, then," he says, soft and fond. "I'll see you when your brain is working again."

Eliot mumbles again, and then slings one arm over Quentin's waist. "Stay," he slurs.

Quentin chuckles again, quieter this time. "Of course," he murmurs. 

* * *

Eliot wakes up the next morning with a mouthful of hair and an armful of warm, naked boy. He hasn't even opened his eyes yet, and it's already one of the best mornings of his life. He stretches languidly, yawning, and smiles when he feels Quentin shift against him. "Good morning, lover."

"Morning," Quentin mumbles, keeping his face tucked into Eliot's shoulder. "Ugh. Too early."

Eliot chuckles. "Go back to sleep, then."

"'M up now, though," Quentin argues around a yawn. "Why're you awake? Thought you were pretty wiped."

"Oh, I was," Eliot says, his voice smug. "Last night was amazing."

"It was," Quentin agrees, finally lifting his head so he can meet Eliot's gaze. " _You_ were pretty fucking amazing."

Much to his chagrin, Eliot flushes. "That was all you," he assures him. "I've never-- fucking _squirted_ before."

Quentin blinks. "What, _really?_ "

"Yes, really," Eliot says. "My sex life with Mike left a lot to be desired, and you know I don't let anyone else near me long enough to try."

Quentin blinks again, then smiles. "Well. Would it make me a Neanderthal if I said that's probably something I'm gonna be proud of for like. The rest of my life?"

Eliot grins. "Maybe a little," he says. "But as far as lifetime achievements go, I think it's definitely up there."

"Oh, really?" Quentin chuckles. "Along with what?"

"Well," Eliot says, serious now. "Starting my transition, obviously. Getting away from my parents. Meeting Margo, and you."

Quentin makes a soft, encouraging noise. "Transitioning is pretty big," he agrees. "How... If you don't mind me asking, how'd you afford it? It's pretty expensive, at least for non-Magicians. Did you use magic?"

Eliot winces. "At first," he admits. "When I first got to New York I was totally on my own. I had no money, no friends - all I had was my college scholarship and all this raw power I couldn't control. It didn't take long for a group of hedges to find me. So, everything's above board now. I didn't go on T until I could get to a doctor. But if you're asking about my scars, I did that myself."

"Did they have a spell?"

Eliot laughs, but his gaze skitters away from Quentin. "Remember when I once traded a spell for a blowjob?"

Quentin's expression softens in understanding. "It was basically a top surgery spell, wasn't it?"

"In essence," Eliot says. "A little more brutal, messier than it would have been if I'd waited until I got into Brakebills - but I didn't know if I'd ever get in, and I didn't feel like I could wait. So."

Quentin hums a quiet note, wrapping an arm around Eliot so he can give him a gentle squeeze. "I get that," he murmurs. "If it made you more comfortable in your own skin, then that's the most important thing."

"I just wanted something I could control," Eliot admits. "My own body had been out of my control for so long. It seemed like a good place to start."

Quentin smiles, leaning in to press a kiss to Eliot's jaw. "You're incredibly brave, you know that?" he murmurs. "I love you."

Eliot smiles back, small but pleased, and turns his head to catch Quentin's next kiss on his lips. "I love you, too."

* * *

Life proceeds as normal for the next couple of weeks. Quentin and Eliot both apply themselves to their studies and, on the weekends, to enjoying life in the Physical Cottage to the fullest. Quentin hasn't used his own room for anything other than changing his clothes in a month, but he isn't complaining; even on the nights where they spend hours fucking, he still sleeps better than he has in years, maybe in his entire life. 

The difference that consistent good sleep makes is noticeable enough that even Ted comments on it, the next time Quentin and Eliot spend a weekend with him. Quentin and Eliot don't bother with separate bedrooms that weekend, and though everything stays perfectly chaste, they both still sleep soundly through the night, wrapped in each other's arms. 

After another comfortable weekend with two of the people Quentin loves most in the world, he's not expecting to be ambushed just inside the front door of the Cottage when he and Eliot return. "Quentin!" Margo cries, latching onto the arm that isn't holding his duffle bag. "And Eliot! Perfect, I was just wondering what to do for dinner. You two can help me whip something up in the kitchen; I can't decide between chicken parmigiano or lasagna. The Naturalist students dropped off a metric shitload of tomatoes this weekend, we need to eat them."

"Am I to take from this that you want _me_ to cook?" Eliot asks, amused, as Margo guides them into the kitchen.

"Unless you want me and Quentin to make a mess out of the kitchen," Margo says sweetly. 

Eliot heaves a great, put-upon sigh. "You're right," he says. "Fine. Does anyone have an actual preference for what I make?"

”It’s been forever since I’ve had chicken parmigiana,” Quentin says hopefully, and Margo nods.

”You spoiled me for anyone else’s recipe,” she says accusingly, though she’s smirking when she looks at Eliot.

"I'd make an excellent house husband, if I was so inclined," Eliot allows. "At least one of you is helping with the prep, though."

"I'll do it," Margo volunteers. "We don't want a repeat of the finals incident."

"You nick yourself _one time,_ " Quentin sighs, rolling his eyes. "Fine, I'll go put our stuff away, babe."

Eliot's eyes go a little gooey. "Thanks," he says. "Don't take too long."

Margo gags theatrically. "Come on, quit eyefucking your boytoy," she complains. "I'm hungry."

Eliot slides a glare to Margo as Quentin walks away. "You really haven't gotten laid in a while if you think that was eyefucking."

"It's still disgusting, whatever you two were just doing," Margo counters. "And distracting you from cooking me delicious food. Come on, into the kitchen with you, Waugh."

Eliot laughs, but he does head into the kitchen. "What's got you in such a good mood?" he asks.

"I finally figured out how to make a magic vibrator that runs itself," Margo says, clearly satisfied with herself. 

Eliot turns to look at her with a wicked grin. "I expect to be taught this spell at our earliest convenience."

There's a matching gleam in Margo's eye as she retorts, "Why? Quentin not keeping you satisfied?"

"Bitch," Eliot says, fond but chiding. "Quentin is keeping me _plenty_ satisfied. But variety is the spice of life."

Margo hums, not entirely convinced, as she pulls the tomatoes out of the fridge. "Variety in toys or partners?"

Eliot makes a disgusted sound. "Bambi," he says. "When you find a guy like that, you don't need anyone else."

That makes Margo pause; her head snaps up, and she stares at Eliot for a long moment before comprehension dawns. "Holy shit," she says, pointing the knife in her hand at Eliot in a vaguely accusing manner. "You weren't giving him bedroom eyes, you were giving him 'three kids and a white picket fence' eyes!"

Eliot falters. "Don't be ridiculous," he says. "We were talking about how well he fucks, not--"

Margo waves the knife dismissively before turning back to the tomatoes. "A good fuck is imperative to a good relationship, if that's something you're both into. But I know you, El. You're fucking besotted, and it’s equally adorable and disgusting."

"Thanks," Eliot says, dry. "But we've only been together for a few weeks, so if you could keep your voice down..."

Margo rolls her eyes. "If he hears me talking about how disgustingly in love with him you are and bolts, then he doesn't deserve you," she says flatly. "And we've got the Cottage to ourselves, Ms Quinn is on a research binge and everyone else fucked off to enjoy their last moments of freedom before midterm madness starts."

"You're never going to let me live this down, are you?" Eliot asks.

Margo smirks, stepping closer so she can bump Eliot with her hip. "Nope."

Eliot shakes his head, but he's smiling, pleased. "He'll never take your place in my heart, Bambi."

"Good." Margo's tone is fierce and pleased, as is her smile. "I'm still going to make sure he knows where breaking your heart will get him, though."

Eliot grimaces. "Please don't."

"Too late," Margo says cheerfully. "I already told him once, I'm just going to remind him."

"Remind who of what?" Quentin asks, coming around the corner. He checks to make sure that Eliot doesn't have a knife or raw chicken in his hands before sidling in close and wrapping an arm around Eliot's waist. "Hi."

"Hi," Eliot says, pleased and thoroughly distracted. He leans into Quentin and turns his head for a kiss. "Nothing. No one. Forget about it."

"That's convincing," Quentin laughs, clearly unconvinced.

"He's just being overprotective," Margo says dismissively. "He knows that I'd just corner you some other time."

Quentin looks at Margo with a raised eyebrow. "Corner me? To do what?"

"Remind you that if you hurt him, they'll never find your body," Margo says, saccharine sweet.

Quentin blinks. "Well. I remember the first time you threatened me with that," he says. "Trust me, you don't need to remind me about that."

"Because it's not necessary," Eliot insists, glaring at Margo. "He's not Mike."

"Quit glaring at me," Margo says with a glare of her own. "Especially because the same goes for _you_ if you hurt Quentin."

"Oh," Eliot says - and smiles. "Good."

Margo nods, just the once, and turns to grab the mozzarella and cheese grater, leaving Quentin staring at her, bemused. "Really, that's all he gets? No uncomfortably detailed threats?"

"He's my best friend," Margo says, raising an eyebrow. "You're just _a_ friend."

Quentin snorts, smiling. "Yeah, I love you, too, Margo."

She scowls. "No mush, Coldwater."

* * *

The last half of the semester is, thankfully, far less dramatic than the first half had been. Julia slowly settles into a not-quite-friendship with Eliot, and she even grudgingly admits to Quentin that Eliot seems to really be good for him. Ted continues his campaign to unofficially adopt Eliot - “At least until you two are married,” he tells Quentin cheerfully over the phone, laughing when Quentin chokes on his own spit. “Then he can be officially be my son-in-law.” - and Eliot seems to reciprocate Ted’s care. At the very least, he’s become a lot more accepting of the hugs that Ted insists on giving him every time Quentin and Eliot visit for a weekend. Margo goes back to pretending that she’s allergic to all of the ‘softer’ emotions in life, but Quentin doesn’t take it personally. He knows that she loves Eliot, and she cares for him, and that’s enough. 

Quentin essentially moves into Eliot’s room, his own being turned into an official study room. They sleep much better when they’re wrapped in each other’s arms - and best, as Eliot likes to tease, when they’ve just worn each other out in every way possible. It only takes one sleepless night spent apart after their first big argument for them both to decide that, no matter how pissed they are at each other, they won’t let it drive them apart for even a single night. And when they have their next fight, they stick to that promise, even though they’re still angry when they go to sleep. In the morning, they’re both well-rested, and have a better attitude towards resolving the fight.

By and large, though, their relationship is smooth, easy, and before they quite realize it, finals have come and gone, and the semester is over. Quentin survived his first full year at Brakebills, and Eliot survived his second. They celebrate privately, of course, but the Saturday after the last final exam, the Physical Cottage is _swarmed_ with students celebrating the end of the year by getting spectacularly blitzed. Eliot is mostly distracted by running the party with Margo, and Quentin leaves him to it; he hangs out by the bar for a while, retreating to his usual reading nook when he finally reaches his limit. Once there, however, he’s surprised to find it already occupied. “Oh,” he says, looking at the occupant in surprise. “Hey, Alice.”

"Hi," Alice says, with a small smile. "I thought you'd find me here eventually."

Quentin grins. "Were you waiting to talk to me?"

"Kind of, yeah," Alice admits. She pushes her glasses up her nose a little and shuffles over to make room for Quentin. "Sit?"

Quentin nods, sliding into the space Alice made. "What's up?"

Alice takes a breath. "I just wanted to say," she says. "Eliot is maybe the last person I expected you to end up with. But you seem happy, really happy. And I'm happy for you, Quentin."

Quentin knows he looks as taken aback as he feels, and it takes him a moment to find his voice. "I - Thanks," he says, managing a small, genuine smile. "I am happy - he makes me happy, and I think I make him happy. So... Thank you, Alice."

Alice smiles back, and twists her hands in her lap. "I know things have been awkward between us since we broke up," she says. "But I'd like us to be friends - if you think that's possible?"

"I do," Quentin assures her. "It's been awkward sometimes, yeah, but. I think we could work it out and be friends."

Alice seems pleased. "A fresh start next semester?" she suggests.

Quentin returns her smile. "Maybe not _completely_ fresh; I'm sure you don't want me begging you for help with Circumstances again," he teases. 

"You're a better Magician than you give yourself credit for," Alice sniffs. "That's why you irritated me."

Quentin chuckles. "I'll keep that in mind, no irritating you." He mimes writing it down on a notepad just to get a laugh from Alice. "So, what're your plans for the summer?"

"I don't really know," Alice admits. "I don't want to go back to my parents' place, at least not for the whole summer. Maybe I'll travel."

Quentin gives Alice an encouraging smile. "I think traveling sounds like a great idea. Maybe you could find some local Magicians and find out how they work the spells we've been studying."

"That does sound like something I'd enjoy," Alice concedes with a laugh. "But what about you? Any plans for the summer?"

"Gonna try to pry El away from campus before he has to start working on his thesis," Quentin says, glancing across the room to look fondly at Eliot, holding court with Margo on the couch behind the bar. "Might introduce my dad to Margo, since she's Eliot's family. Other than that... I don't know. Breaks aren't usually very exciting for me."

Alice follows his gaze, and smiles. "I'm keeping you from him, aren't I?"

"Nah, I was pretty much done with being super social for the night," Quentin reassures her. "He knows there's only so much I can handle."

"Then maybe I'm keeping him from you," Alice says, nodding back towards Eliot, who has noticed their interest and has started towards them, only to stall when he realises how closely they're sitting.

Quentin laughs quietly at that. "I'll see you later, Alice," he says, giving her a smile before he pushes himself off of the seat, moving closer to Eliot. "Hi, sweetheart. Margo taking over host duties?"

"For now," Eliot says, one hand falling easily to Quentin's waist as he looks down at him. "I missed you."

Quentin's smile grows. "I missed you, too. But you were having fun with the party, and I'll have you to myself most of the summer."

"Obviously," Eliot says, rolling his eyes. "But I can take a break, hang out with you for a bit. No one back there has anything interesting to say anyway, except for Margo, and I'm spending all summer with her, too."

Quentin snorts, stepping in closer so he can wrap an arm around Eliot's waist and tuck himself under Eliot's arm. "Well, let's go hang out in the library for a little bit? I'm not really feeling up to rejoining the party just yet."

Eliot gives Quentin a squeeze, kisses the top of his head. "Anything for you, darling."


End file.
